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A TREASURY

OF
ENGLISH LITERATURE

This volume is the sixth section
of a re-issue in six parts of
A Treasury of English Literature
originally issued in one volume
in November, 1906

A TREASURY

OF
ENGLISH LITERATURE

Selected and arranged

BY
KATE M.^%ARREN

Lecturer in English Language and Literature at Wesifield College (University of London}

With general Introduction

BY
STOPFORD A. BROOKE

JOHNSON TO BURNS

LONDON

ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO. LTD

10 ORANGE STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE, W.C

1908

BUTLER & TANNER,

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS.

FROME, AND LONDON.

Preface to Revised Issue in Parts

THIS book is the last of a series of six volumes which form, all
together, an anthology of English verse and prose from the
earliest time up to Burns. The whole has been already published
in one volume under the title of A Treasury of English Literature,
but for the convenience of students and classes who may wish
to study separately a particular epoch, this edition in six books
has been prepared. The selections in each volume of the series
represent a period of literature, and, so far, form a whole. For an
account of the aims of the complete anthology readers are re-
ferred to the Editor's Preface which, together with Mr. Stopford
Brooke's Introduction, is printed at the beginning of this book.

The present volume includes specimens of prose and verse
from Johnson to Burns. It scarcely needs an introduction, for
we are now among the " moderns." Johnson, Goldsmith, Field-
ing, Burke, Gray, Blake and Burns, to mention only a few of
the leaders, are in our company to-day.

The verse selections have been chosen partly with the view
of giving some slight idea of the earlier part of the romantic
movement in poetry, of the struggle of the old " classical " school
of Pope against the young, fresh, varied genius of the poets who
began to care for nature and romance, and whose work, at the
end of the eighteenth century, triumphed so completely.

Among the prose writers the most room has been given
to Johnson and Burke. The great novelists have less because
they cannot really be represented at all in selection. Their work
is more like the drama and needs to be read as a whole to be
comprehended. This is especially the case with Fielding. The

PREFACE TO REVISED ISSUE IN PARTS

complete letter, however, taken from Richardson's greatest
novel, does represent the sentimental and detaikd analysis of
feeling and the slow-moving style which belong throughout to
that author's work.

The letters of Cowper and Gray which close this volume are
useful in showing not only a special and beautiful form of English
literature, but also the romantic elements of the eighteenth
century expressing themselves through the medium of prose.

K. M. W.

July, 1907.

VI

Preface to First Edition

IT may be objected to this book that there are already good
anthologies of English Literature. There seems to be, how-
ever, a place unfilled for which this Treasury may be fitted.
It has been prepared, in the first instance, as a companion to
Mr. Stopford Brooke's Primer of English Literature, with the
intention of illustrating, by prose and verse selections, the literary
history and criticism to be found in that well-known book.
The Primer has long been recognized as a classic among manuals
of the kind. More than twenty-five years ago. Matthew Arnold
thought it worthy of an essay to itself ; * but without that
honour it would have easily held its own, for it combines the
qualities of usefulness and beauty in an unusual way. To those
who need a guide on their first venture into the centuries of
English Literature it is invaluable; while to those who al-
ready know and admire that wonderful country, it has the power
to give keen pleasure from the penetration and delicacy of its
criticism as well as from the fine Tightness of its proportions.

The Primer, however, was never intended to be sufficient in
itself ; it implies that the reader will turn to the books described
and criticized. But the range of literature involved makes
this, in many cases, no easy matter, and it is hoped that the
Treasury of English Literature will supply the need of those
who may not be able to seek out from the books themselves
these literary illustrations. Furthermore, the Editor will be
glad if her work here may help to prevent, or at least render
less possible, that second-hand use of a history of literature

1 See Mixed Essays, 1879. Macmillan.
vii

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION

by which the student takes the given view, both of fact
and opinion, without an intelligent effort to arrive at his own
conclusions.

But, beyond these aims, it is hoped that the present book may
fill a place as an English anthology representing more fully
than has yet been attempted in a brief selection, the course of
our literature (with the exception of the Drama) from the
earliest time to the eighteenth century ; and a special feature
has been made of Old and Middle English writings before the
time of Chaucer. The Treasury forms a complete work in it-
self and can be used apart from its connexion with the Primer
of English Literature.

No extracts from the Drama proper have been included,
except in one case as an example of Marlowe's " mighty line."
It seems almost impossible, from the very nature of that form
of art, to represent it at all justly in brief passages. Moreover,
the work of selection from our dramatic literature is being
done by others at the present time, to say nothing of the
classic volume of Elizabethan specimens given to us by Charles
Lamb.

The selections in this Treasury end with the poetry of Burns,
though originally it was intended to bring them up to 1832, where
the Primer itself ends. It was found, however, that this would
make the book too large for its purpose, without adding much
to its usefulness, since there are already many good selections
from the later authors. The writers included and the order
and proportionate importance assigned to them follow, as a
rule, the arrangement of the Primer, though now and then
an author has been represented who is not named there, or, if
named, is only glanced at without distinctive criticism.

For the character of the specimens the Editor is, with a few
exceptions, alone responsible. She has tried to select passages
interesting in their subject-matter, or in their literary relation-
ships, as well as representative of the authors in their best or
most characteristic manner. It has been impossible to avoid
giving certain extracts which have already a place in other

viii

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION

anthologies, but new matter has been quoted wherever it could
be done without material loss. With one or two exceptions,
the extracts up to the end of the 15 th century have been
printed in the original spelling ; after that date, except in the
case of Spenser, the spelling has been modernized.

It is too much to hope that every one will agree with the
selection made. But those who know the difficulties of com-
piling such a book as this will be lenient in their judgment of its
failings ; and they will further understand how the Editor,
viewing the work as a whole, now that it is finished, would
like to do it all over again, making many changes. It often
goes to the heart of the lover of literature when the stern
exigencies of space compel him, in his character of compiler,
to omit or curtail some interesting or beautiful or time-
honoured or personally-endeared lines. His only comfort
lies in the hope that the brief compilation may lead readers to
the full text.

This Treasury was begun in the spring of 1900, and has
never since been wholly laid aside. One advantage of the
delay, however, has been the opportunity it has given for
the testing of certain parts of the work. Many of the selec-
tions have been used to illustrate the Editor's lectures to
college students in English Literature, while valuable sugges-
tions have been made by those authorities who have seen
the book in MS. or proof form, especially by Professor W.
P. Ker, who has been kindly interested in it from the
beginning.

The Editor has made the translations and glossaries attached
to the Old and Middle English specimens, but for some details
of arrangement and type she wishes to confess her debt to Mr.
Quiller-Couch, whose delightful Oxford Book of English Verse
has given her suggestions.

The original texts printed here have, as far as possible, been
taken from the best editions available, some of which are now
unfortunately out of print. The Editor is especially grateful
to Professor Wiilker of Leipzig, who has kindly allowed her

ix

PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION

to make full use of his edition of Grein's text of the Old
English poems; and to Professor Skeat for the generous
permission to make extracts from his editions of Chaucer,
Langland and other Middle English writers. To the Delegates
of the Clarendon Press she is indebted for confirming this
permission to use these publications, as well as for allowing
her to quote from Mr. Sedgefield's edition of Boethius. To
Dr. Furaivall and to the publications of the Early English
Text Society the Treasury in its earlier pages owes a great deal.
The stanzas from the Middle English Pearl have been taken by
kind permission from Professor Gollancz's edition of the poem.
The Editor is also conscious of her obligation to the many
other previous editors of English classics whose labour has
made possible the compilation of such a book as this.

KATE M. WARREN.
LONDON, September 1905.

General Introduction

THIS book, to which I have been asked to write a brief introduc-
tion, is an anthology of short pieces of English poetry and prose
from the beginning of our literature up to the later part of the eigh-
teenth century. It was fitting that I should write such an intro-
duction, for the extracts are intended to illustrate the work of the
writers mentioned in my Primer of English Literature, and are
to be used, it is hoped, along with that little book, by the teachers
and pupils who have adopted it in schools and colleges. Many
years ago I was requested to collect such an anthology, but I
had not time enough on my hands to enter upon so laborious an
undertaking. Miss Kate Warren undertook, and has now com-
pleted, this heavy task, and the choice of the pieces, the transla-
tions of the early and middle English extracts, the arrangement
and the execution of the work are, it seems to me, equally good.
I think the book ought to prove of great use in the teaching of
English Literature, and be also of much help to students in the
early years of their study of English writing. But it appeals
to those who are neither teachers nor students of literature, but
who love and honour it. It presents in brief extracts a miniature
image of English Literature, of its great age, its continuity, its
changing history, its growth, its innate elements, the outside
influences which it assimilated, its varied interests, and its
general excellence. The book represents more than a thousand
years of literature in England, and it is impossible to glance
through it without asking oneself the question — What are the
main elements, powers, interests, and what will be the destiny

xi

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

of this great and varied Literature ? To give a few answers, a
few out of many, to that question is the aim of this introduction.

The first thing that strikes us is the great age of English
Literature. Its poetry began in England in the seventh century,
its prose with King Alfred in the ninth. There was earlier
poetry in the England over-seas, and earlier prose from Baeda's
hand, but the latter is not extant, and the former was not made
in this island. English poetry has then had a career of more
than twelve hundred, and English prose a career of more than
a thousand years — a great and venerable age, the thought of
which alone, even without its varied history, impels and kindles
the imagination. Yet, with all the great age of this Literature,
it has never grown old. It is still young, animated, vigorous
and inspiring, still capable of new things, still certain of a future.
The power of reproduction, that is, the power of life, is still
potent in its body. It combines the dignity of age with the
charm of youth.

We might not perhaps say this so boldly if in its history there
had been centuries of silence. But there have been only two
great breaks in its plentiful production. • The first, from the
Conquest to the reign of Jjohn, lasted about 130 years, but was
not even then devoid of] literature in our tongue. The second
lasted from the death of .Chaucer to the reign of Henry VIII,
but that was much less devoid of literature than the first.
Since then, though the changes have been many, literature has
never ceased to live an active life of incessant production.

The second thing, then, that we observe concerning it is its
continuity. The tree which took root in the old English work
of Caedmon and Cynewulf , Alfred and JEliric, has had, I have said,
its intervals of arrested growth ; one, while the language, pari
passu with the English nationality, was being formed into a new
vehicle of thought ; another, when the Civil Wars had imprisoned
the freedom of imagination and closed its outlets ; but it has always
been the same tree, and its growth (even during those intervals)
has been continuous ; climbing steadily, branch after branch, to
its present height, expanding steadily, in foliaged splendour,

xii

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

till now nations take their pleasure under its imperial shades,
" high over arched and echoing walks between."

Being thus continuous, the various periods of its growth are
vitally connected one with the other. It is a living organism,
with a living soul. Each period of its growth not only brings up
to all the excellence outward circumstance will permit its own
special forms, but produces, underneath these special forms, the
germs which in the next period will grow into the excellences
of that period. It is quite possible to trace in the Eliza-
bethan age of literature the arising of the fresh branches of
thought and passion which the succeeding age brought to flower
and fruitage. We can predict what is to emerge in Words-
worth, Coleridge, Byron, and even Shelley, from prophetic
hints and ideas only shooting above the surface in the
poetry which preceded them. We can trace back the ideas
which take shape in the new forms of the Novel, of History, of
Philosophy, to their unnoticed origins under the old forms which
preceded them ; and we might do work of this connecting kind
from the beginning to the present day of our literature. This
vital and en-linked evolution belongs, of course, to other litera-
tures, but I do not think I exaggerate when I say that it is closer,
less broken, more easily observed in English than in any other
modern literature, except perhaps the literature of France.

Again, English Literature, like the English people, has always
had a great power of assimilation, and this was almost forced
upon it by circumstance. From the very beginning it was
deeply influenced by its Celtic surroundings. Whitby, where
its poetry began, was a Celtic monastery. Northumberland,
where its poetry developed, was full of Celtic influences. Even
in the south the Irish scholars and their schools touched
the beginnings of literary life through Aldhelm, and formed
the genius of Dunstan at Glastonbury. And all the literature
which belongs to religion took through the Irish missionaries
who invaded Middle England an Irish tinge. A certain
imaginative passion, a love of natural beauty, and a reckless
wildness, curiously mingled with an almost scientific devotion

xiii

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

to metrical form, crept into the Teutonic mind. These Celtic
influences perished in the north with the invasion of the
Danes, and they became small by degrees in the south where
Alfred and his successors made literature purely Teutonic. But
the Celtic imagination returned with the Normans who brought
back into England the Welsh story of Arthur, which, worked
into excellence by their formative genius, has affected English
Literature from the beginning of the thirteenth century to the
present day. The powers of the Celtic genius have been assimi-
lated by England, and of late a new river of the Celtic spirit,
drawn from the mythic hills of Ireland, has begun to flow through
English poetry and prose.

Almost contemporaneous with the Celtic influence on early
English literature in the north of England was the influence, also
in the north, of Roman thought and literature ; and this fell also
upon the south. It filtered into the English soul through the
Roman Church, and brought with it not only the love of law and
order and organic form, of a certain steadfastness in pursuit of
ideas and of pleasure in their logical analysis, but also, as food
for the imagination, all the legends of the Church and its theo-
logical mysteries of doctrine and ritual ; and at the same time, for
poetic work, an ideal of form in the verse of Vergil and of other
Latin poets — an ideal the English writers scarcely understood,
but which like all ideals, whether understood or not, awakened
emotion and kindled thought. This logical, analysing, orderly,
composing, steadying power ; this classic elegance, grace, dignity
and ideal of form in the Latin poets were assimilated by degrees,
through various channels, during the whole course of English
Literature, into its philosophy, its political treatises, its theo-
logy, and its imaginative work, both in prose and poetry. It
steadied, it ordered Literature. It began in Cynewulf and Baeda.
It lives to-day. It came in with the Roman Church. It was
born into a new life in the Renaissance.

Another influence which affected early England was that
of the Norsemen, first in the north, afterwards in the south.
Few traces of this are to be found in English Literature till we

xiv

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

touch some of its stories in Middle English, but I have always
felt that the intrusion into England of the iron temper, the
passionate love of adventure, the war-savagery, the devotion to
farm life and to home when at rest, the intensity of the natural
affections, chiefly in their tragedy, the grim endurance of fate,
which characterize the Icelandic Sagas, must have greatly
modified the English character, and through that the English
Literature. There has always been a Viking element in English
poetry, and of late it has reappeared in one of those strange
reincarnations of which there are so many examples in our
literature. The Norsemen were of course one people with
the English, but when they invaded and settled in England, the
original English had changed their character from that of the
sea-rovers they were when first they entered Britain. New
blood, a fiercer, more vital, a wilder nature was now assimilated
by the English folk, and we can trace its power, even in men
like Wordsworth, Burns and Carlyle.

Meanwhile, as if it were necessary that new varieties should
add themselves to the English race and the English imagination —
in order to vary in the end the English Literature — the Norsemen,
of the same stock as those who had invaded England, invaded
France; and there, with their eager and digesting powers,
absorbed through men like Lanfranc what wisdom and
knowledge lived in Italy, took into their brains the special
Gallic elements which moved in France, and eagerly drank
into their imagination the Celtic legends which the British,
flying before the English, had brought into Armorica.
These legends they shaped into forms more literary than the
British had given them. Having done this work in Normandy
they carried it and all its results into England, now hungering
for a new literary food. And in the course of two centuries,
England absorbed through its Norman French conquerors all
these new and old elements into her literature. Its assimilative
power was never more clearly shown. Moreover, the more alien
elements it absorbed, the more capable became its assimilating
power.

VOL. VI. xv b

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

I have said that England, through the Normans, took in cer-
tain Italian influences, which added logical, historical and
analysing powers to the English mind. These were concerned
with theology, history and ecclesiastical law ; and the Normans
carried them further than Italy had carried them. But now,
in the fourteenth century, Italy gave to England, and chiefly to
her poetry, the humanism of the childhood of the Renaissance
through Daifte, Petrarch and Boccaccio. The representation by
Dante of the whole spirit of mediaevalism did not profoundly
influence England who had had her own mediaevalism, but
his vivid, personal, passionate representation of a hundred types
of human nature did enkindle the soul of English poetry ; while
the less religious, less mediaeval, less moral, franker and bolder
freedom of the humanism of Boccaccio kindled it still more.
The English Renaissance began with Chaucer, and was Italian in
its origin. England absorbed from Italy all that it then could
absorb. But she was asked to absorb it too soon ; she had not
grown enough to develop fully these new Italian elements, and
indeed they were themselves not sufficiently grown up to be
used by men of a lesser genius than Chaucer. It was
only after a long interval that, having reached maturity in
Italy, England began again to assimilate them with accelerating
rapidity in the age of Elizabeth. Nor was she content with
Italy. She digested all she desired from the literatures of
Spain and France.

There is no need to illustrate the argument any further. Every
one will remember how closely, how continuously after Eliza-
beth's time, when modern English Literature may be said to
have begun, England has taken into her literature the
spiritual, philosophic and imaginative elements, not only of
the European but of the Asiatic literatures. She has eagerly
sought for and lovingly embraced the foreigner ; and owing
to this has obtained and secured for her literature an immense
variety and an immense expansion.

The remarkable thing is — that, with all this assimilation of
foreign elements, the literature which used them was not imita-

xvi

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

live. When they were produced in English prose or poetry
they were different from that which each of them had been in
its native land. They had become original. The primeval
Staff of the English nature had, as they passed through it, con-
quered them for its own, changed their nature, partly by rejecting
all that in them was out of affinity with it, partly by giving its
strength and steadfastness to every element in them with which it
chose to combine. Whatever it took it anglicized, so strong and
vital were the original cells of its thought and passion. English
literature has always been English.

There is, I may say in passing, a certain humility at the root
of this fine assimilative power, a capacity for admiration of
what is good and beautiful in others, a longing to get this
goodness and beauty into its being, which places this power
on that high level where the artist forgets himself in love
of any noble or beautiful thing which he has not attained
but desires to attain — and there is nothing which makes so
powerfully as this for a splendid literature.1 The English
have possessed this, the Celt has not. The Celt thinks too much
of himself, is too much enthralled by his own individuality
to admire and love the literature of others, is too rarely humble
enough to assimilate what is good beyond his own borders.
And the result has been that he has never produced, as yet, a
great or a continuous literature.

It follows from all this that another mark of English Literature
is variety. It has taken in so much of the literary interests of
other nations, has accepted with joy so many impulses from all
sides — European, Asiatic, African — that it was sure to be like a

1 Of course, other literatures than the English have had this power of
assimilation, but I do not think that any one of them has had it to the
same extent, has had so little fear of losing its own personality by taking
into itself foreign elements. English Literature has rarely raised into
any importance the echt Englisch cry, yet no one can confuse her literature
with any other. It is in raising the echt Deutsch, the echt Irish cry that a
literature loses growth, expansion, and finally individuality. It is by
stretching out its arms to embrace other literatures, by taking them into
itself, and then by reforming them within itself by its own vital force,
that any literature becomes, like the English, truly and powerfully national.

xvii

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

robe of many colours, a web of a thousand patterns. No one can
look back on its history both in prose and poetry, no one can
glance through this anthology, without confessing the truth
of this — and great variety is an admirable thing in any literature.
It follows also from what has been said that there is in Eng-
lish Literature a certain internationalism which makes it fit and
easy for other nations to receive as impulse, to sympathize with,
and to adapt into their literary sphere. There have been many
instances of this already. As the prevalence of the English
language increases, this internationalism in English Literature
will work more closely and fully on foreign literatures.

There are many other characteristics of this famous literature,
but they are not of such a large aspect as those of which I have
spoken. One or two of these may be mentioned. There is its
closeness to life, period after period, its steady realism to the
time in which it is written. Yet, always mingled with this
closeness to the present, there is also an idealism, which, on the
basis of the present, conceives and prophesies a better time in the
future, makes imaginative casts into the future, and calls on
men to live for the good and beautiful to come while they contend
with the evil and ugliness of the present. j

In this closeness to life, English Literature has painted Eng-
land as it was from generation to generation. All that England
is and has been is written in its prose and poetry. Not half
enough has been made of this by historians. The only certain
history is in a nation's literature. We can be absolutely certain
that at this or that period men were thinking and feeling
in such and such a way when we read the literature of any of
these times. That is clear history.

Another of these characteristics of English literature is its good
sense, its practical handling of life, and with that, a freedom in
its discussion of all the aspects of life. Some have denied this
freedom, but the denial is not true. English literature could
not have handled life practically, unless it had also handled
it freely. But it always used its freedom within certain moral
and artistic limits on which the English nature has always

xviii

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

insisted, to the great excellence of its literature as a world-wide
power.

Combined with this closeness to life and with this practical
good sense, there is in English Literature an energy of imagina-
tion which one would not at first expect from the English nature,
and which I do not think it would have possessed had it remained
unmixed. But when Celtic, Norse, French, Italian elements
were assimilated by the English nature, a soil, an atmosphere
were made in which Imagination could be born, grow, mature and
create, at ease. Whenever the English people entered the realm
of art, they developed, but especially in architecture and poetry,
imaginative genius. No one can look back on the long and
glorious roll of the English poets without crying out with joy
over the splendour of their imaginative energy. It has pro-
duced masterpieces in every form of poetry, and has done
this, after a long boyhood, with matured powers for five
hundred years.

This combination in a literature of imaginative power with
closeness to life and practical good sense develops an enormous
energy in creation. It does more. It makes, using its practical
and shaping powers, the ideas of other literatures into instru-
ments of thought which the world can easily use and compre-
hend. That also is one of the great goods which the English
genius does for the human race.

I do not choose, in this brief introduction, to dwell on the
weaknesses and faults of English Literature. That would be
an easy task, but an ungrateful one. They are plain enough, and
English and foreign critics are fond of marking them out for dis-
approval and satire. But what literature is without its failures
and its stains ? They are natural to its excellences, the dark
shadows of its bright substances. Let others dwell on them,
not I.

It remains to say a brief word on two subjects, each of which
deserves a treatment at large.

This great national literature, extending backwards for

xix

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

more than 1,200 years, linked together not only by its language
which through all its changes is the same, but also by its
solid English core which through all the foreign elements it
assimilated has remained the same, is a great nationalizing
power, as great in binding together a nation as the equally
long and equally vital struggle of the English people for liberty
within freely enacted law. The traditions of its glories, of its in-
fluence on the world, of its poetry, philosophy, science, history
and imaginative story-telling, of its wisdom in law and its in-
telligence and spirituality in religion, and of its venerable age
which abides in a youth which may well seem immortal, kindle
a noble pride and patriotism of the soul in Englishmen, and
bind all classes together in a bond which has no selfishness,
no party spirit, no meanness, and no base hunger for place or
wealth. It is a spiritual bond, and to strengthen it by knowledge
of the literature of England ought to be, as it is not yet, one of
the foremost aims of all Education, not only for the sake of
expanding the intelligence of Englishmen and of awakening their
soul, but also of filling them with the spirit of noble citizenship.
Finally, the vast extension of the English-speaking world
means the vast extension of the literature of England. This
literature not only goes with the empire, but with the nations,
like America, who were derived from us and speak our tongue.
I do not think it will ever have much influence over Asiatic
people, except Japan ; it will be more likely to influence the
African than the Asiatic, when the African is educated. But
when Australia and New Zealand are full, when English Africa
governs herself, when Canada and America are crowded from
shore to shore, when South America is bound up with its
Northern sister, when the English tongue has become in
Europe as much an international language as French was in
older days, English Literature will accompany English speech,
and be the beloved study of millions on millions of intelli-
gent and imaginative men and women, their highest ideal,
and the most various expression for them of the thoughts
and emotions which they desire to see in noble and lovely form.

xx

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

As we look into the future of the world, the expansion of
English Literature is as wonderful to imagine as it is difficult
to realize. Even if England, like other empires, should fall, the
English tongue will not pass away with England, nor her litera-
ture. Even if another world-wide tongue should arise, English
Literature, like the Latin and the Greek, but with a more varied
influence than they, will remain one of the great and inspiring
powers of the intelligence, the passion and the imagination of the
worlds that are to be.

STOPFORD A. BROOKE.

xxi

Contents

JOHNSON TO BURNS
/. PROSE

PAGE

SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) :
(a) THE LIFE OF SAVAGE :

The Poet's Poverty I

(6) RASSELAS :

The Disquietude of Rasselas ...... 2

(c) THE DICTIONARY :

Part of the Preface ....... 4

A Page of Words ........ 6

(d) LETTER TO LORD CHESTERFIELD ..... 8

(e) A JOURNEY TO THE WESTERN ISLANDS :

Slanes Castle and the Buller of Buchan .... 9

(/) LIVES OF THE POETS :

Addison as a Critic and Writer . . . . .11

JAMES BOSWELL (1740-1795) :
THE LIFE OF JOHNSON :

Boswell's First Meeting with Johnson . . . .14

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1744) :
THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD :

The Family of Wakefield Endeavour to Cope with their
Betters 16

THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD :

The Tombs of Westminster Abbey 18

UNACKNOWLEDGED ESSAYS :

Carolan, the Last Irish Bard ...... 19

xxiii

CONTENTS

PAGE

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS (1723-1792) :
THE ROYAL ACADEMY DISCOURSES :

The Contemplation of Excellence . . . . .21
The Reasonableness of First Impressions .... 22
The Contemplation of Genius . . . . . .23

HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797 ?) =

(a) THE LETTERS :

The Weather. A Fire. Gossip ..... 24

The Resignation of Pitt 25

Old Age and Friendship ...... 26

(b) ANECDOTES OF PAINTING :

The Originality of Hogarth's Genius .... 26

GILBERT WHITE (1720-1793);:

THE NATURAL HISTORY OF SELBOURNE :

Some Notes on Birds ....... 27

Love of Fellowship in Animals ..... 28

SAMUEL RICHARDSON (1689-1761) :

From CLARISSA HARLOWE : A Letter ..... 30

HENRY FIELDING (1707-1754) :
TOM JONES :

Sophia's Bird ..... -35

Of Good and Bad Characters ... - 37

TOBIAS SMOLLETT (1721-1771) :
RODERICK RANDOM :

A Storm at Sea 38

LAURENCE STERNE (1713-1768) :
TRISTRAM SHANDY :

Uncle Toby 39

Corporal Trim Preparing to Read 40

FRANCES BURNEY (1752-1840) :
EVELINA :

A Letter from Evelina . . . . . • .42
A Letter from Mr. Villars ...... 44

WILLIAM ROBERTSON (1721-1793) :
THE HISTORY OF SCOTLAND :

A Scottish View of Queen Elizabeth .... 44
xxiv

CONTENTS

PAGE

EDWARD GIBBON (1737-1794) :
THE DECLINE AND FALL :

The Triumph of Aurelian . . . . . 46 /

The Harbour of Constantinople ..... 47
The Character of Julian the Apostate .... 48

DAVID HUME (1711-1776) :

(a) THE HISTORY OF ENGLAND :

The Prince of Orange and the Netherlands ... 49

(b) A TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE :

Sympathy in its Relation to Morals . . . .51

ADAM SMITH (1723-1790) :

(a) THE THEORY OF MORAL SENTIMENTS :

The Worship of Riches . . . . . . -53

(b) THE WEALTH OF NATIONS :

The Labour of Producing the Accommodation of Life . 54

THE LETTERS OF "JUNIUS" (1769-1772):

Remarks on the Political Situation, Letter I. . . . .56

EDMUND BURKE (1729-1797) :

(a) THE SUBLIME AND BEAUTIFUL :

On the Strength of Expression . . . . -57

(b) THOUGHTS ON THE PRESENT DISCONTENTS :

A Vindication of His Enquiry . . . . . .58

(c) SPEECH ON AMERICAN TAXATION :

The Character of Grenville ...... 60

(d) SPEECH ON CONCILIATION WITH AMERICA :

The True Ground of Concession . . . . .61

(e) A LETTER TO A NOBLE LORD :

Burke's Friendship with Lord Keppel .... 63
(/) LETTERS ON A REGICIDE PEACE :

The Fortune of States 64

(/?) REFLECTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FRANCE :

An Apology for his Reflections . . . . . . 65 /

On Reformation ........ 66

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) :
LETTERS

Borrowdale ......... 68

The Lake ......... 69

From Keswick to Rydal ...... 69

XXV

CONTENTS

PAGE

WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) :
LETTERS :

On Growing Older . . . . . . .71

Two Goldfinches ........ 72

A Character ........ 73

II. VERSE
JAMES THOMSON (1700-1748) :

(a) THE SEASONS :

A Mountain Waterfall ....... 74

Hunting the Hare ........ 75

The Migration of Birds ....... 76

Tempest in Winter . . . . . . 77

(b) THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE :

Pilgrims in the Castle ....... 78

SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) :

(a) LONDON :

Poverty in London . . . . . . .81

(b) THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES :

The Scholar's Life . . . . . . .82

The Consolation of Life . . . . . . .83

ROBERT BLAIR (1699-1746) :
THE GRAVE :

The Grave ......... 83

Death and Hereafter ....... 84

Death the Glutton 85

EDWARD YOUNG (1681-1765) :

(a) NIGHT-THOUGHTS :

The Voyage of Life ....... 86

(b) LOVE OF FAME :

The Languid Lady . . . . . . .87

CHARLES CHURCHILL (1731-1764) :

(a) THE TIMES :

Privilege ......... 88

(b) THE ROSCIAD :

On Letters in England ". . . . . . .89

MARK AKENSIDE (1721-1770) :

(a) THE PLEASURES OF THE IMAGINATION :

Truth seen through Imagination ..... 90
The Pleasure of the Imaginative Man . . . .91

(b) AN EPISTLE TO CURIO :

The Influence of a Patriot ...... 92

xxvi

CONTENTS

PAGE

WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759) :

Ode to Evening ......... 93

From An Ode on Popular Superstitions of the Highlands . . 94

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) :

(a) Ode to Adversity ........ 97

(b) THE PROGRESS OF POESY :

Shakespeare, Milton, and Dryden . . . . .98

WILLIAM SHENSTONE (1714-1763) :

From the SCHOOLMISTRESS ....... 99

WILLIAM HAMILTON OF BANGOR (1704-1754) :

The Braes of Yarrow 100

DAVID MALLET (1705-1765) :

! From the Ballad of WILLIAM AND MARGARET .... 101

JAMES MACPHERSON (1736-1796)
CARTHON :

The Desolation of Balclntha 102

THOMAS CHATTERTON (1752-1770)

(a) THE BRISTOWE TRAGEDY :

Sir Charles Bawdin Sentenced to Death . . . .103

(b) AN EXCELENTE BALADE OF CHARITE :

A Storm in Summer ....... 105

(c) ^ELLA :

My Love is Dead ........ 106

JOHN DYER (17007-1758)

(a) GRONGAR HILL :

The Prospect 107

(b) THE FLEECE :

Rites of the Sheep Shearers . . . . . .108

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (1728-1774) :

(a) THE TRAVELLER :

Italy 109

Holland no

(b) THE DESERTED VILLAGE :

The Village no

The Village Inn 1 1 1

THOMAS WARTON (1728-1790) :

Sonnet 112

xxvii

CONTENTS

PAGE

JOSEPH WARTON (1722-1800) :

From the Ode to the Nightingale . , . . . .112

JAMES BEATTIE (1735-1803) :
THE MINSTREL :

The Youth with Nature . . . . . .113

MICHAEL BRUCE (1746-1767) :
LOCHLEVEN :

Rural Life . . . . . . . . 1 14

JOHN LANGHORNE (1735-1779) :
THE COUNTRY JUSTICE :

An Apology for Vagrants 115

WILLIAM MICKLE (1735-1788) :

The Mariner's Wife 116

CHRISTOPHER SMART (1722-1771) :

From A SONG TO DAVID . . . . . . .118

ALLAN RAMSAY (1686-1758) :
THE GENTLE SHEPHERD :

My Peggy is a Young Thing 121

Mother Happiness . . . . . . .123

ROBERT FERGUSSON (1758-1774) :

An Elegy on the Death of Scots Music 123

JANE ELLIOT (1727-1805) :

A Lament for Flodden ....... 125

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827)

(a) POETICAL SKETCHES :

How Sweet I Roamed . . . . . . .126

My Silks and Fine Array . . . . . .126

To the Muses ........ 127

(b) SONGS OF INNOCENCE :

The Introduction . ..... 127

The Lamb 128

Infant Joy . . . . . . . . .129

The Divine Image. ....... 129

A Dream . . . . . . . . .130

(c) SONGS OF EXPERIENCE :

The Tiger . . . . . . . . .131

Infant Sorrow ........ 132

A Divine Image . . . . . . . .132

The Poison Tree . . . . . . . .132

London ......... 133

xxviii

CONTENTS

PAGE

WILLIAM BLAKE (1757-1827) continued:
(d) KING EDWARD THE THIRD :

The King's Prayer before the Battle of Cressy . . .134

WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800):

Breathe from the gentle South (from Olney Hymns) . .134

On the Receipt of My Mother's Picture . . . . 135

To Mary 137

The Castaway 138

The Poet's Cat 140

From THE TASK :

A Country Landscape . . . . . . .142

Crazy Kate ..... ... 142

I was a Stricken Deer ....... 143

The Bastille 144

On Liberty ......... 144

Animal Life ........ 146

A Glade in Winter ....... 146

GEORGE CRABBE (1754-1832):
(a) THE VILLAGE :

Old Age and Poverty ....... 148

(6) THE BOROUGH :

The River Tides 149

(c) TALES OF THE HALL :

The Keeper's Wife . . . . . . 150

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD (1766-1823) :

Ploughing in the Olden Days (from The Fanner's Boy) . . 154
The Old Couple 155

ROBERT BURNS (1759-1796) :

To a Mouse . . . . . . . . 157

To Mary in Heaven ........ 158

Jean . . . . . . . . . .159

The Banks O'Doon 160

John Anderson, My Jo. . . . . . .161

Auld Lang Syne . ...... 161

A Man's a Man . . . . . . . . 162

The Farewell .164

Burning the Nuts at Halloween . . . . . .165

The Holy Fair 168

The Twa Dogs 172

Address to the Unco Guid . ..... 1 80

XXIX

JOHNSON TO BURNS

Samuel Johnson

1709-1784.

THE POVERTY OF THE POET SAVAGE

THE great hardships of poverty were to Savage not the want of
lodging or of food, but the neglect and contempt which it drew
upon him. He complained that, as his affairs grew desperate,
he found his reputation for capacity visibly decline ; that his
opinion in questions of criticism was no longer regarded, when
his coat was out of fashion ; and that those who, in the interval
of his prosperity, were always encouraging him to great under-

I takings, by encomiums on his genius and assurances of success,

now received any mention of his designs with coldness, thought
that the subjects on which he proposed to write were very diffi-
cult, and were ready to inform him that the event of a poem
was uncertain, that an author ought to employ much time in
the consideration of his plan, and not presume to sit down to
write in confidence of a few cursory ideas, and a superficial
knowledge ; difficulties were started on all sides, and he was no
longer qualified for any performance but the Volunteer Laureate.
Yet even this kind of contempt never depressed him, for he
always preserved a steady confidence in his own capacity, and
believed nothing above his reach, which he should at any time
earnestly endeavour to attain. He formed schemes of the same
kind with regard to knowledge and to fortune, and flattered
himself with advances to be made in science, as with riches, to
be enj oyed in some distant period of his life. For the acquisition
of knowledge, he was, indeed, far better qualified than for that

VOL. VI. I B

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

of riches ; for he was naturally inquisitive, and desirous of the
conversation of those from whom any information was to be
obtained, but by no means solicitous to improve those oppor-
tunities that were sometimes offered of raising his fortune ;
and he was remarkably retentive of his ideas, which, when once
he was in possession of them, rarely forsook him, a quality
which could never be communicated to his money.

(From The Life of Savage.)

THE DISQUIETUDE OF RASSELAS
Thus they rose in the morning, and lay down at night, pleased
with each other and with themselves, all but Rasselas, who, in
the twenty-sixth year of his age, began to withdraw himself
from their pastimes and assemblies, and to delight in solitary
walks and silent meditation. He often sat before tables,
covered with luxury, and forgot to taste the dainties that were
placed before him : he rose abruptly in the midst of the song,
and hastily retired beyond the sound of musick. His attendants
observed the change, and endeavoured to renew his love of
pleasure : he neglected their omciousness, repulsed their invita-
tions, and spent day after day on the banks of rivulets, sheltered
with trees, where he sometimes listened to the birds in the
branches, sometimes observed the fish playing in the stream,
and anon cast his eyes upon the pastures and mountains filled
with animals, of which some were biting the herbage, and some
sleeping among the bushes. This singularity of his humour
made him much observed. One of the sages, in whose conversa-
tion he had formerly delighted, followed him secretly, in hope
of discovering the cause of his disquiet. Rasselas, who knew
not that any one was near him, having, for some time, fixed his
eyes upon the goats that were browsing among the rocks, began
to compare their condition with his own. " What," said he,
" makes the difference between man and all the rest of the
animal creation ? Every beast that strays beside me has the
same corporal necessities as myself ; he is hungry, and crops

2

SAMUEL JOHNSON

the grass ; he is thirsty, and drinks the stream ; his thirst and
hunger are appeased, he is satisfied and sleeps ; he rises again
and is hungry, he is again fed and is at rest. I am hungry and
thirsty, like him, but when thirst and hunger cease, I am not at
rest ; I am, like him, pained with want, but am not, like him,
satisfied with fulness. The intermediate hours are tedious and
gloomy ; I long again to be hungry, that I may again quicken
my attention. The birds pick the berries, or the corn, and fly
away to the groves, where they sit, in seeming happiness, on
the branches, and waste their lives in tuning one unvaried series
of sounds, I, likewise, can call the lutanist and the singer,
but the sounds, that pleased me yesterday, weary me to-day,
and will grow yet more wearisome to-morrow. I can discover
within me no power of perception, which is not glutted with its
proper pleasure, yet I do not feel myself delighted. Man surely
has some latent sense, for which this place affords no gratifica-
tion ; or he has some desires, distinct from sense, which must
be satisfied, before he can be happy." After this, he lifted up
his head, and seeing the moon rising, walked towards the palace.
As he passed through the fields, and saw the animals around
him, " Ye," said he, " are happy, and need not envy me, that
walk thus among you, burdened with myself ; nor do I, ye gentle
beings, envy your felicity ; for it is not the felicity of man. I
have many distresses, from which ye are free ; I fear pain, when
I do not feel it ; I sometimes shrink at evils recollected, and some-
times start at evils anticipated : surely the equity of providence
has balanced peculiar sufferings with peculiar enjoyments."

With observations like these, the prince amused himself as
he returned, uttering them with a plaintive voice, yet with a
look, that discovered him to feel some complacence in his own
perspicacity, and to receive some solace of the miseries of life,
from consciousness of the delicacy with which he felt, and
the eloquence with which he bewailed them. He mingled,
cheerfully, in the diversions of the evening, and all rejoiced to
find that his heart was lightened.

(From Rasselas.)
3

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

ON HIS DICTIONARY

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids
to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labour of years,
to the honour of my country, that we may no longer yield the
palm of philology, without a contest, to the nations of the con-
tinent. The chief glory of every people arises from its authors ;
whether I shall add anything by my own writings to the reputa-
tion of English literature must be left to time : much of my life
has been lost under the pressure of disease ; much has been trifled
away ; and much has always been spent in provision for the day
that was passing over me ; but I shall not think my employment
useless or ignoble, if by my assistance foreign nations, and
distant ages, gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and
understand the teachers of truth p if my labours afford light to
the repositories of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker,
to Milton, and to Boyle.

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on
my book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with
the spirit of a man that has endeavoured well. That it will
immediately become popular I have not promised to myself ;
a few wild blunders, and risible absurdities, from which no work
of much multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly
with laughter, and harden ignorance in contempt : but useful
diligence will at last prevail, and there can never be wanting
some who distinguish desert, who will consider that no dictionary
of a living tongue can ever be perfect, since, while it is hastening
to publication, some words are budding, and some falling away ;
that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology,
and that even a whole life would not be sufficient ; that he whose
design includes whatever language can express, must often
speak of what he does not understand ; that a writer will some-
times be hurried by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint
with weariness under a task which Scaliger compares to the
labours of the anvil and the mine ; that what is obvious is not
always known, and what is known is not always present ; that

4

SAMUEL JOHNSON

sudden fits of inadvertency will surprise vigilance, slight avoca-
tions will seduce attention, and casual eclipses of the mind will
darken learning ; and that the writer shall often in vain trace
his memory, at the moment of need, for that which yesterday
he knew with intuitive readiness, and which will come uncalled
into his thoughts to-morrow. In this work, when it shall be
found that much is omitted, let it not be forgotten that much
likewise is performed ; and though no book was ever spared out
of tenderness to the author, and the world is little solicitous to
know whence proceeded the faults of that which it condemns,
yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it that the English Dic-
tionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and
without any patronage of the great ; not in the soft obscurities
of retirement, or under the shelter of academick bowers, but
amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow.
It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to observe
that if our own language is not here fully displayed, I have only
failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto
completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably
fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of
successive ages, inadequate and delusive, if the aggregated
knowledge and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians
did not secure them from the censure of Beni ; if the embodied
criticks of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their
work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second
edition another form, I may surely be contented without the
praise of perfection, which, if I could obtain, in this gloom of
solitude, what would it avail me ? I have protracted my work
till most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into the
grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds ; I there-
fore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or
hope from censure or from praise.

(From the Preface to Dictionary.)

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

WORDS FROM THE DICTIONARY

FRIEND (vriend, Dutch ; freond, Saxon. This word with its
derivatives, is pronounced frend, frendly : the i totally neglected).
i. One joined to another in mutual benevolence and intimacy ;
opposed to foe or enemy. 2. One without hostile intentions.
3. One reconciled to another : this is put by the custom of the
language somewhat irregularly in the plural number. 4. An
attendant, or companion. 5. Favourer, one propitious. 6. A
familiar compellation.

(1) Friends of my soul, you twain

Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain :

— (Shakespeare. )

Some man is a friend for his own occasion, and will not abide
in the day of thy trouble.

— (Eccles. vi. 8.)
God's benison go with you, and with those

That would make good of bad, and friends of foes.

— (Shakespeare.)

Wonder not to see this soul extend
The bounds, and seek some other self, a friend.

— (Dryden.)

(2) Who comes so fast in silence of the night ?

A friend.
What friend ? your name ?

— (Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice.)

(3) He's friends with Caesar,

In state of health thou say'st, and thou say'st free.

— (Shakespeare.)

My son came then into my mind ; and yet my mind
Was then scarce friends with him.

— (Shakespeare's King Lear.)
If she repent, and would make me amends,
Bid her but send me hers, and we are friends.

— (Carew.)
6

SAMUEL JOHNSON

(4) The King ordains their entrance, and ascends
His regal seat, surrounded by his friends.

— (Dryden's £n.)

(5) Aurora riding upon Pegasus, sheweth her swiftness, and
now she is a friend to poetry and all ingenious inventions.

— (Peacham.)

(6) Friend, how earnest thou in hither ?

— (Matt. xxii. 12.)
What supports me, do'st thou ask ?
The conscience, friend, t'have lost mine eyes o'erply'd
In liberty's defence.

—(Milton.)

LEXICOGRAPHER n.s. (A.«£IKOV andypa^w ; lexicographe, French).

A writer of dictionaries ; a harmless drudge, that busies himself

in tracing the original, and detailing the signification of words.

Commentators and lexicographers acquainted with the Syriac

language, have given these hints in their writings on scripture.

— (Watts' Improvement of the Mind.)

NET n.s. (nati, Gothick ; net, Saxon), i. A texture woven
with large interstices or meshes, used commonly as a snare for
animals. 2. Anything made with interstitial vacuities,
(i) Poor bird ! thou'dst never fear the net, nor lime,
The pitfall nor the gin.

— (Shakespeare's Macbeth.)

Impatience intangles us like the fluttering of a bird in a net,
but cannot at all ease our trouble.

— (Taylor's Holy Living).

2. He made nets of chequered work for the chapiters, upon
the top of the pillars.

— (i Kings vii. 17.)
The vegetative tribes,
Wrapt in a filmy net, and clad with leaves.

— (Thomson.)

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

LETTER TO LORD CHESTERFIELD

To THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD.

MY LORD, — I have been lately informed by the proprietors
of The World, that the papers, in which my Dictionary is recom-
mended to the publick, were written by your lordship. To be
so distinguished is an honour which, being very little accustomed
to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive or in
what terms to acknowledge. When upon some slight encour-
agement I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like
the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and
could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself, " le vain-
queur du vainqueur de la terre " ; that I might obtain that regard
for which I saw the world contending. But I found my atten-
dance so little encouraged that neither pride nor modesty would
suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lord-
ship in publick, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing, which
a retired or uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all that
I could ; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected,
be it ever so little. Seven years, my lord, have now passed,
since I waited in your outward room, and was repulsed from
your door ; during which time I have been pushing on my work
through difficulties of which it is useless to complain, and have
brought it, at last, to the verge of publication, without one act
of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour.
Such treatment I did not expect ; for I never had a patron before.

The shepherd in Virgil grew acquainted with love, and found
him a native of the rocks.

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on
a man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached
ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which you have
been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been
kind ; but it has been delayed, till I am indifferent, and cannot
enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it ; till I am known,
and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity not
to confess obligations, where no benefit has been received ; or

SAMUEL JOHNSON

to be unwilling that the publick should consider me as owing
that to a patron, which providence has enabled me to do for
myself.

Having carried on my work, thus far, with so little obligation
to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed, though
I should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have been
long wakened from that dream of hope, in which I once boasted
myself, with so much exultation,

My lord,
Your lordship's most humble

and most obedient servant,

SAMUEL JOHNSON.

SLANES CASTLE.— THE BULLER OF BUCHAN

We came in the afternoon to Slanes Castle, built upon the
margin of the sea, so that the walls of one of the towers seem
only a continuation of a perpendicular rock, the foot of which
is beaten by the waves. To walk round the house seemed im-
practicable. From the windows the eye wanders over the sea
that separates Scotland from Norway, and when the winds beat
with violence, must enjoy all the terrific grandeur of the tempest-
uous ocean. I would not for my amusement wish for a storm ;
but as storms, whether wished or not, will sometimes happen,
I may say, without violation of humanity, that I should willingly
look out upon them from Slanes Castle.

When we were about to take our leave, our departure was
prohibited by the Countess till we should have seen two places
upon the coast, which she rightly considered as worthy of curi-
osity, Dun Buy, and the Buller of Buchan, to which Mr. Boyd
very kindly conducted us.

Dun Buy, which in Erse is said to signify the Yellow Rock,
is a double protuberance of stone, open to the main sea on one
side, and parted from the land by a very narrow channel on
the other. It has its name and its colour from the dung of
innumerable sea fowls, which in the spring choose this place
as convenient for incubation, and have their eggs and their

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

young taken in great abundance. One of the birds that frequent
this rock has, as we were told, its body not larger than a duck's,
and yet lays eggs as large as those of a goose. This bird is by
the inhabitants named a coot. That which is called coot in
England is here a cooter.

Upon these rocks there was nothing that could long detain
attention, and we soon turned our eyes to the Buller or Bouilloir
of Buchan, which no man can see with indifference, who has
either sense of danger, or delight in rarity. It is a rock
perpendicularly tubulated, united on one side with a high shore,
and on the other rising steep to a great height, above the main
sea. The top is open, from which may be seen a dark gulf of
water which flows into the cavity, through a breach made in
the lower part of the enclosing rock. It has the appearance of
a vast well bordered with a wall. The edge of the Buller is not
wide, and to those that walk round, appears very narrow. He
that ventures to look downward, sees that if his foot should
slip, he must fall from his dreadful elevation upon stones on
one side, or into the water on the other. We, however, went
round, and were glad when the circuit was completed.

When we came down to the sea, we saw some boats, and
rowers, and resolved to explore the Buller at the bottom. We
entered the arch, which the water had made, and found our-
selves in a place, which, though we could not think ourselves
in danger, we could scarcely survey without some recoil of the
mind. The basin in which we floated was nearly circular,
perhaps thirty yards in diameter. We were enclosed by a
natural wall, rising steep on every side to a height which pro-
duced the idea of insurmountable confinement. The intercep-
tion of all lateral light caused a dismal gloom. Round us was
a perpendicular rock, above us the distant sky, and below us
an unknown profundity of water. If I had any malice against
a walking spirit, instead of laying him in the Red Sea, I would
condemn him to reside in the Buller of Buchan.

But terror without danger is only one of the sports of fancy,
a voluntary agitation of the mind that is permitted no longer

10

SAMUEL JOHNSON

than it pleases. We were soon at leisure to examine the place
with minute inspection, and found many cavities which, as the
watermen told us, went backward to a depth which they had
never explored. Their extent we had not time to try ; they
are said to serve different purposes. Ladies come hither
sometimes in the summer with collations, and smugglers make
them store-houses for clandestine merchandise. It is hardly
to be doubted but the pirates of ancient times often used them
as magazines of arms, or repositories of plunder.

To the little vessels used by the northern rowers, the Buller
may have served as a shelter from storms, and perhaps as a
retreat from enemies ; the entrance might have been stopped,
or guarded with little difficulty, and though the vessels that
were stationed within would have been battered with stones
showered on them from above, yet the crews would have lain
safe in the caverns.

Next morning we continued our journey, pleased with our
reception at Slanes Castle, of which we had now leisure to recount
the grandeur and the elegance ; for our way afforded us few
topics of conversation. The ground was neither uncultivated
nor unfruitful ; but it was still all arable. Of flocks or herds
there was no appearance. I had now travelled two hundred
miles in Scotland, and seen only one tree not younger than
myself.

(From A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland.)

ADDISON AS A CRITIC AND WRITER OF PROSE

It is not uncommon, for those who have grown wise by the
labour of others, to add a little of their own, and overlook their
masters. Addison is now despised by some who, perhaps,
would never have seen his defects, but by the lights which he
afforded them. That he always wrote as he would think it
necessary to write now, cannot be affirmed ; his instructions
were such as the characters of his readers made proper. That
general knowledge which now circulates in common talk, was
in his time rarely to be found. Men not professing learning

ii

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

were not ashamed of ignorance ; and, in the female world, any
acquaintance with books was distinguished only to be censured.
His purpose was to infuse literary curiosity, by gentle and
unsuspected conveyance, into the gay, the idle, and the wealthy ;
he, therefore, presented knowledge in the most alluring form,
not lofty and austere, but accessible and familiar. When he
showed them their defects, he showed them, likewise, that
they might be easily supplied. His attempt succeeded ; inquiry
was awakened, and comprehension expanded. An emulation
of intellectual elegance was excited, and, from his time to our
own, life has been gradually exalted, and conversation purified
and enlarged.

Dryden had, not many years before, scattered criticisms over
his prefaces with very little parsimony ; but, though he some-
times condescended to be somewhat familiar, his manner was
in general too scholastick for those who had yet their rudiments
to learn, and found it not easy to understand their master.
His observations were framed rather for those that were learning
to write, than for those that read only to talk.

An instructor like Addison was now wanting, whose remarks
being superficial, might be easily understood, and being just,
might prepare the mind for more attainments. Had he pre-
sented Paradise Lost to the publick with all the pomp of system
and severity of science, the criticism would, perhaps, have been
admired, and the poem still have been neglected ; but, by the
blandishments of gentleness and facility, he has made Milton
an universal favourite, with whom readers of every class think
it necessary to be pleased.

As a describer of life and manners, he must be allowed to stand,
perhaps, the first of the first rank. His humour, which, as Steele
observes, is peculiar to himself, is so happily diffused as to give
the grace of novelty to domestick scenes and daily occurrences.
He never " outsteps the modesty of nature," nor raises merri-
ment or wonder by the violation of truth. His figures neither
divert by distortion, nor amaze by aggravation. He copies

12

SAMUEL JOHNSON

life with so much fidelity, that he can be hardly said to invent ;
yet his exhibitions have an air so much original, that it is difficult
to suppose them not merely the product of imagination.

As a teacher of wisdom, he may be confidently followed.
His religion has nothing in it enthusiastick or superstitious :
he appears neither weakly credulous, nor wantonly skeptical ;
his morality is neither dangerously lax, nor impracticably rigid.
All the enchantment of fancy, and all the cogency of argument,
are employed to recommend to the reader his real interest,
the care of pleasing the author of his being. Truth is shown
sometimes as the phantom of a vision ; sometimes appears half-
veiled in an allegory ; sometimes attracts regard in the robes
of fancy, and sometimes steps forth in the confidence of reason.
She wears a thousand dresses, and in all is pleasing.

" Mille habet ornatus, mille decentes habet." His prose is
the model of the middle style ; on grave subjects not formal,
on light occasions not grovelling, pure without scrupulosity,
and exact without apparent elaboration ; always equable, and
always easy, without glowing words or pointed sentences.
Addison never deviates from his track to snatch a grace ; he
seeks no ambitious ornaments, and tries no hazardous innova-
tions. His page is always luminous, but never blazes in unex-
pected splendour.

It was apparently his principal endeavour to avoid all harsh-
ness and severity of diction ; he is, therefore, sometimes verbose
in his transitions and connexions, and sometimes descends too
much to the language of conversation ; yet if his language had
been less idiomatical, it might have lost somewhat of its genuine
Anglicism. What he attempted, he performed ; he is never
feeble, and he did not wish to be energetick ; he is never rapid,
and he never stagnates. His sentences have neither studied
amplitude, nor affected brevity : his periods, though not dili-
gently rounded, are voluble and easy. Whoever wishes to attain
an English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not
ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of
Addison. (From The Life of Addison.)

13

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

fames Boswell

1740-1795.

BOSWELL'S FIRST MEETING WITH JOHNSON

THIS is to me a memorable year (1763) ; for in it I had the happi-
ness to obtain the acquaintance of that extraordinary man
whose memoirs I am now writing ; an acquaintance which I
shall ever esteem one of the most fortunate circumstances in
my life. Though then but two and twenty, I had for several
years read his works with delight and instruction, and had the
highest reverence for their author, which had grown up in my
fancy into a kind of mysterious veneration, by figuring to myself
a state of solemn elevated abstraction, in which I supposed him
to live in the immense metropolis of London.

Mr. Thomas Davies, the actor, who then kept a bookseller's
shop in Russell Street, Covent Garden, told me that Johnson
was very much his friend, and came frequently to his house,
where he more than once invited me to meet him ; but by some
unlucky accident or other he was prevented from coming to
us. ... At last, on Monday, the i6th of May, when I was
sitting in Mr. Davies' back parlour after having drunk tea with
him and Mrs. Davies, Johnson unexpectedly came into the shop ;
and Mr. Davies having perceived him through the glass door
in the room in which we were sitting, advancing towards us,
he announced his awful approach to me, somewhat in the manner
of an actor in the part of Horatio when he addresses Hamlet
on the appearance of his father's ghost, " Look, my lord — it
comes ! " I found that I had a very perfect idea of Johnson's
figure, from the portrait of him painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds
soon after he had published his Dictionary, in the attitude of
sitting in his easy chair in deep meditation ; which was the first
picture his friend did for him, which Sir Joshua very kindly
presented to me, and from which an engraving has been made
for this work. Mr. Davies mentioned my name, and respect-

14

JAMES BOSWELL

fully introduced me to him. I was much agitated ; and recol-
lecting his prejudice against the Scotch, of which I had heard
much, I said to Davies, " Don't tell where I come from." " From
Scotland," cried Davies, roguishly. " Mr. Johnson," said I,
" I do, indeed, come from Scotland, but I cannot help it." I
am willing to flatter myself that I meant this as light pleasantry
to soothe and conciliate him, and not as an humiliating abase-
ment at the expense of my country. But, however that might
be, this speech was somewhat unlucky ; for with that quickness
of wit for which he was so remarkable, he seized the expression.
" Come from Scotland," which I used in the sense of being of
that country ; and, as if I had said that I had come away from
it, or left it, retorted, " That, Sir, I find, is what a very great
many of your countrymen cannot help." This stroke stunned
me a good deal ; and when we had sat down, I felt myself not
a little embarrassed, and apprehensive of what might come
next. He then addressed himself to Davies : " What do you
think of Garrick ? He has refused me an order for the play for
Miss Williams, because he knows the house will be full, and that
an order would be worth three shillings." Eager to take any
opening to get into conversation with him, I ventured to say,
" O, Sir, I cannot think Mr. Garrick would grudge such a trifle
to you." " Sir," said he, with a stern look, " I have known
David Garrick longer than you have done : and I know no
right you have to talk to me on the subject." Perhaps I deserved
this check ; for it was rather presumptuous in me, an entire
stranger, to express any doubt of the justice of his animad-
version upon his old acquaintance and pupil. I now felt myself
much mortified, and began to think that the hope which I had
long indulged of obtaining his acquaintance was blasted. And
in truth had my ardour not been uncommonly strong, and my
resolution uncommonly persevering, so rough a reception might
have deterred me for ever from making any further attempts.
Fortunately, however, I remained upon the field not wholly
discomfited ; and was soon rewarded by hearing some of his con-
versation. (From The Life of Johnson.}

15

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Oliver Goldsmith

1728-1744.

THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD ENDEAVOUR TO COPE
WITH THEIR BETTERS

I NOW began to find that all my long and painful lectures upon
temperance, simplicity and contentment were entirely disre-
garded. The distinctions lately bestowed upon us by our betters
awakened that pride which I had laid asleep, but not removed.
Our windows, again, as formerly, were filled with washes for
the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an enemy to the
skin without doors, and the fire as a spoiler of the complexion
within. My wife observed that rising too early would hurt
her daughters' eyes, that working after dinner would redden
their noses ; and she convinced me that the hands never looked
so white as when they did nothing. Instead, therefore, of
finishing George's shirts, we now had them new-modelling their
old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. The poor Miss Ham-
boroughs, their former gay companions, were cast off as mean
acquaintance, and the whole conversation ran upon high life,
and high-lived company with pictures, taste, Shakespeare and
the musical glasses. But we could have borne all this had not
a fortune- telling gipsy come to raise us into perfect sublimity.
The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than my girls came running
to me for a shilling apiece to cross her hand with silver. To
say the truth, I was tired of being always wise, and could not
help gratifying their request, because I loved to see them happy.
I gave each of them a shilling ; though for the honour of the
family it must be observed, that they never went without money
themselves, as my wife always generously let them have a
guinea each, to keep in their pockets, but with strict injunctions
never to change it. After they had been closeted up with the
fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, upon their
returning, that they had been promised something great. " Well,
my girls, how have you sped ? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-

16

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

teller given thee a pennyworth ? " "I protest, papa," says
the girl, " I believe she deals with somebody that's not right,
for she positively declared that I am to be married to a squire
in less than a twelvemonth ! " " Well, now, Sophy, my child,"
said I, " and what sort of a husband are you to have ? " " Sir,'
replied she, " I am to have a lord soon after my sister has
married the squire." " Now," cried I, " is that all you are to
have for your two shillings ? Only a lord and a squire for two
shillings ? You fools, I could have promised you a prince and
a nabob for half the money."

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended with very
serious effects : we now began to think ourselves designed by
the stars to something exalted, and already anticipated our
future grandeur.

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must observe
it once more, that the hours we pass with happy prospects in
view, are more pleasing than those crowned with fruition. In
the first case we cook the dish to our own appetite ; in the
latter, Nature cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our entertainment.
We looked upon our fortunes as once more rising ; and as the
whole parish asserted that the squire was in love with my
daughter, she was actually so with him ; for they persuaded
her into the passion. In this agreeable interval my wife had
the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took care to
tell us every morning with great solemnity and exactness. It
was one night a coffin and cross bones, the sign of an approaching
wedding ; at another time she imagined her daughters' pockets
filled with farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly stuffed
with gold. The girls themselves had their omens. They felt
strange kisses on their lips ; they saw rings in the candle ; purses
bounced from the fire, and true-love-knots lurked in the bottom
of every tea-cup.

(From The Vicar of Wakefield.)

VOL. vi. 17

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE TOMBS OF WESTMINSTER ABBEY

I am just returned from Westminster Abbey, the place of sepul-
ture for the philosophers, heroes and kings of England. What
a gloom do monumental inscriptions and all the venerable re-
mains of a deceased merit inspire. ... As I was indulging such
reflections, a gentleman dressed in black, perceiving me to be a
stranger, came up, entered into conversation, and politely offered
to be my instructor and guide through the temple. " If any
monument," said he, " should particularly excite your curiosity,
I shall endeavour to satisfy your demands." I accepted with
thanks the gentleman's offer, adding, that " I was come to
observe the policy, the wisdom, and the justice of the English,
in conferring rewards upon deceased merit. If adulation like
this," continued I, " be properly conducted, as it can in no ways
injure those who are flattered, so it may be a glorious incentive
to those who are now capable of enjoying it. It is the duty of
every good government to turn this monumental pride to its
own advantage ; to become strong in the aggregate from the
weakness of the individual. If none but the truly great have a
place in this awful repository, a temple like this will give the
finest lessons of morality, and be a strong incentive to true am-
bition. I am told that none have a place here but characters
of the most distinguished merit." The Man in Black seemed
impatient at my observations, so I discontinued my remarks,
and we walked on together to take a view of every particular
monument in order as it lay.

As the eye is naturally caught by the finest objects, I could
not avoid being particularly curious about one monument.
" That," said I to my guide, " I take to be the tomb of some
very great man. By the peculiar excellence of the workman-
ship, and the magnificence of the design, this must be a trophy
raised to the memory of some king who has saved his country
from ruin, or law-giver who has reduced his fellow-citizens
from anarchy into just subjection." " It is not requisite," an-
swered my companion, smiling, " to have such qualifications in

18

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

order to have a very fine monument here : more humble abilities
will suffice." " What ! I suppose, then, the gaining two or
three battles, or the taking half a score of towns, is thought a
sufficient qualification ? " " Gaining battles or taking towns,"
replied the Man in Black, " may be of service ; but a gentleman
may have a very fine monument here without ever seeing a battle
or a siege." This then, is the monument of some poet, I presume
— of one whose wit has gained him immortality ? " " No, sir,"
replied my guide, " the gentleman who lies here never made
verses ; and as for wit, he despised it in others, because he had
none himself." " Pray tell me then, in a word," said I peevishly,
" what is the great man who lies here particularly remarkable
f or ? " " Remarkable, Sir ! " said my companion ; " Why, Sir,
the gentleman that lies here is remarkable for a tomb in West-
minster Abbey." " But, head of my ancestors ! how has he
got here ? I fancy he could never bribe the guardians of the
temple to give him a place. Should he not be ashamed to be
seen among company where even moderate merit would look
like infamy ? " "I suppose," replied the Man in Black, " the
gentleman was rich, and his friends, as is usual in such a case,
told him he was great. He readily believed them ; the guardians
of the temple, as they got by the self-delusion, were ready to be-
lieve him too ; so he paid his money for a fine monument ; and
the workman, as you see, has made him one of the most beau-
tiful. Think not, however, that this gentleman is singular in
his desire of being buried among the great ; there are several
others in the temple, who, hated and shunned of the great while
alive, have come here fully resolved to keep them company now
they are dead."

(From The Citizen of the World.)

CAROLAN, THE LAST IRISH BARD

Of all the bards this country ever produced, the last and the
greatest was Carolan the blind. He was at once a poet, a
musician, a composer, and sung his own verses to his harp.

19

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The original natives never mention his name without rapture ;
both his poetry and music they have by heart ; and even some
of the English themselves, who have been transplanted there,
find his music extremely pleasing. A song beginning, " O
Rourke's noble fare will ne'er be forgot," translated by Dean
Swift, is of his composition ; which, though perhaps by this
means the best known of his pieces, is yet by no means the most
deserving. His songs, in general, may be compared to those
of Pindar, as they have frequently the same flights of imagination,
and are composed (I don't say written, for he could not write),
merely to flatter some man of fortune upon some excellence of
the same kind. In these one man is praised for the excellence
of his stable, as in Pindar, another for his hospitality, and a
third for the beauty of his wife and children, and a fourth for
the antiquity of his family. Whenever any of the original
natives of distinction were assembled at feasting or revelling,
Carolan was generally there, where he was always ready with
his harp to celebrate their praises. He seemed by nature formed
for his profession ; for as he was born blind, so also he was
possessed of a most astonishing memory, and a facetious turn
of thinking, which gave his entertainers infinite satisfaction.
Being once at the house of an Irish nobleman where there was
a musician present, who was eminent in the profession, Carolan
immediately challenged him to a trial of skill. To carry the
jest forward, his lordship persuaded the musician to accept the
challenge, and he accordingly played over on his fiddle the
fifth concerto of Vivaldi. Carolan immediately taking his
harp, played over the whole piece after him, without missing a
note, though he had never heard it before ; which produced some
surprise : but their astonishment increased, when he assured
them he could make a concerto in the same taste himself, which
he instantly composed, and that with such spirit and elegance
that it may compare (for we have it still), with the finest com-
positions of Italy.

(From Unacknowledged Essays : Essay iv.)

20

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS

Sir Joshua Reynolds

1723-1792.

THE CONTEMPLATION OF EXCELLENCE

WHOEVER has so far formed his taste as to be able to relish and
feel the beauties of the great masters, has gone a long way in
his study ; for, merely from a consciousness of this relish of the
right, the mind swells with an inward pride, and is almost as
powerfully affected as if it had itself produced what it admires.
Our hearts, frequently warmed in this manner by the contact
of those whom we wish to resemble, will undoubtedly catch
something of their way of thinking ; and we shall receive in our
own bosom some radiation at least of their fire and splendour.
That disposition which is so strong in children, still continues
with us, of catching involuntarily the general air and manner
of those with whom we are most conversant ; with this difference
only, that a young mind is naturally pliable and imitative ;
but in a more advanced state it grows rigid, and must be warmed
and softened before it will receive a deep impression.

From these considerations, which a little of your own reflection
will carry a great way further, it appears of what great conse-
quence it is that our minds should be habituated to the con-
templation of excellence ; and that, far from being contented to
make such habits the discipline of our youth only, we should
to the last moment of our lives, continue a settled intercourse
with all the true examples of grandeur. Their inventions are
not only the food of our infancy, but the substance which supplies
the fullest maturity of our vigour.

The addition of other men's judgement is so far from weakening
our own, as is the opinion of many, that it will fashion and
consolidate those ideas of excellence which be in embryo, feeble,
ill-shaped and confused, but which are finished and put in order
by the authority and practice of those whose works may be said
to have been consecrated by having stood the test of ages.

21

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The mind, or genius, has been compared to a spark of fire
which is smothered by a heap of fuel and prevented from blazing
into a flame. This simile, which is made use of by the younger
Pliny, may be easily mistaken for argument or proof. But
there is no danger of the mind's being overburdened with know-
ledge, or the genius extinguished by any addition of images ;
on the contrary, these acquisitions may as well, perhaps better,
be compared, if comparisons signified anything in reasoning,
to the supply of living embers which will contribute to strengthen
the spark that without the association of more fuel would have
died away.

(From the Sixth Discourse Delivered at the Royal Academy.)

THE REASONABLENESS OF FIRST IMPRESSIONS

There is in the commerce of life, as in Art, a sagacity which
is far from being contradictory to right reason, and is superior
to any occasional exercise of that faculty, which supersedes it,
and does not wait for the slow process of deduction, but goes
at once, by what appears a kind of intuition, to the conclusion.
A man endowed with this faculty, feels and acknowledges the
truth, though it is not always in his power perhaps to give a
reason for it ; because he cannot recollect and bring before him
all the materials that gave birth to his opinion ; for very many
and very intricate considerations may unite to form the principle,
even of small and minute parts, involved in, or dependent on a
great system of things : though these in process of time are for-
gotten, the right impression still remains fixed in his mind.
This impression is the result of the accumulated experience of
our whole life, and has been collected we do not always know
how, or when. But this mass of collective observation, however
acquired, ought to prevail over that reason, which, however
powerfully exerted on any particular occasion, will probably
comprehend but a partial view of the subject ; and our conduct
in life as well as in the Arts, is, or ought to be, generally governed
by this habitual reason : it is our happiness that we are enabled
to draw on such funds. If we were obliged to enter into a

22

theoretical deliberation on every occasion before we act, life
would be at a stand, and Art would be impracticable.

It appears to me, therefore, that our first thoughts, that is,
the effect which anything produces on our minds, on its first
appearance, is never to be forgotten ; and it demands for that
reason, because it is the first, to be laid up with care. If this be
not done, the Artist may happen to impose on himself by partial
reasoning, by a cold consideration of those animated thoughts
which proceed, not perhaps from caprice or rashness (as he may
afterwards conceit), but from the fulness of his mind, enriched
with the copious stores of all the various inventions which he
had ever seen, or had ever passed in his mind. These ideas are
infused into his design, without any conscious effort ; but, if he
be not on his guard, he may reconsider and correct them, till
the whole matter is reduced to a commonplace invention.

This is sometimes the effect of what I mean to caution you
against ; that is to say, an unfounded distrust of the imagination
and feeling, in favour of narrow, partial, confined, argumenta-
tive theories ; and of principles that seem to apply to the design
in hand ; without considering those general impressions on the
fancy in which real principles of sound reason, and of much more
weight and importance, are involved, and, as it were, lie hid,
under the appearance of a sort of vulgar sentiment.

Reason, without doubt, must ultimately determine every-
thing ; at this minute it is required to inform us when that very
reason is to give way to feeling.
(From the Thirteenth Discourse delivered to the Students of the

Royal Academy.)

THE CONTEMPLATION OF GENIUS

The habit of contemplating and brooding over the ideas of
great geniuses, till you find yourself warmed by the contact
is the true method of forming an artist-like mind ; it is im-
possible, in the presence of those great men, to think or invent
in a mean manner ; a state of mind is acquired that receives
those ideas only which relish of grandeur and simplicity.

(From the Twelfth Discourse.)
23

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Horace Walpole

1717-1797?

THE WEATHER. A FIRE NEAR SACKVILLE
STREET. GOSSIP

To GEORGE MONTAGU, ESQ.

ARLINGTON STREET, April 28, 1761.

I AM glad you will relish June for Strawberry ; by that time I
hope the weather will have recovered its temper. At present
it is horridly cross and uncomfortable. I fear we shall have a
cold season ; we cannot eat our summer and have our summer.

There has been a terrible fire in the little traverse street, at
the upper end of Sackville Street. Last Friday night, between
eleven and twelve, I was sitting with Lord Digby in the coffee-
room at Arthur's ; they told us there was a great fire somewhere
about Burlington Gardens. I, who am as constant at a fire as
George Selwyn at an execution, proposed to Lord Digby to go
and see where it was. We found it within two doors of that
pretty house of Fairfax, now General Waldegrave's. I sent for
the latter, who was at Arthur's, and for the guard from St.
James's. Four houses were in flames before they could find a
drop of water, eight were burnt. I went to my Lady Suffolk,
in Saville-row, and passed the whole night till three in the
morning, between her little hot bedchamber and the spot, up
to my ankles in water, without catching cold. As the wind which
had set towards Swallow Street changed in the middle of the
conflagration, I concluded the greatest part of Saville Row would
be consumed. I persuaded her to prepare to transport her most
valuable effects — portantur avari Pygmalionis opes miser ce.
She behaved with great composure, and observed to me herself
how much worse her deafness grew with the alarm. Half the
people of fashion in town were in the streets all night, as it hap-
pened in such a quarter of distinction. In the crowd, looking
on with great tranquillity, I saw a Mr. Jackson, an Irish gentle-
man, with whom I had dined this winter at Lord Hertford's

24

HORACE WALPOLE

He seemed rather grave ; I said, " Sir, I hope you do not live
hereabouts." " Yes, Sir," said he, " I lodged in the house that
is just burnt."

Last night there was a mighty ball at Bedford House ; the
royal dukes and Princess Emily were there ; your lord-lieutenant,
the great lawyer, lords, and old Newcastle, whose teeth are
tumbled out, and his mouth tumbled in ; hazard very deep ;
loo, beauties, and the Wilton-bridge in sugar, almost as big as
the life. I am glad all these joys are near going out of town.
The Graftons go abroad for the Duchess's health; another climate
may mend that — I will not answer for more.

Yours ever,

HOR. WALPOLE.
(From the Letters.)

THE RESIGNATION OF PITT
To THE SAME

ARLINGTON STREET, October 8, 1761.

. . . Mr. Pitt resigned last Monday. Greater pains have
been taken to recover him than were used to drive him out.
He is inflexible, but mighty peaceable. Lord Egremont is to
have the seals to-morrow. It is a most unhappy event — France
and Spain will soon let us know we ought to think so. For
your part, you will be invaded ; a blacker rod l than you will be
sent to Ireland. Would you believe that the town is a desert ?
The wedding filled it, the coronation crammed it ; Mr. Pitt's
resignation has not brought six people to London. As they
could not hire a window and crowd one another to death to see
him give up the seals, it seems a matter of perfect indifference.
If he will accuse a single man of checking our career of glory
all the world will come to see him hanged ; but what signifies
the ruin of a nation, if no particular man ruins it ? ...

I have nothing new to tell you ; but the grain of mustard seed

1 Montagu was Usher of the Black Rod in Ireland under the Earl of
Halifax.

25

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

sown on Monday will soon produce as large a tree as you can
find in any prophecy. Adieu.

(From The Same.)

OLD AGE AND FRIENDSHIP
To THE SAME

PARIS, November 21, 1765.

My gout and my stick have entirely left me. I totter still it
is true, but I trust shall be able to whisk about at Strawberry
as well almost as ever. When that hour strikes, to be sure I
shall not be very sorry. The sameness of the life here is worse
than anything but English politics and the House of Commons.
. . . Hither I think I shall never come again. No, let us
sit down quietly and comfortably, and enjoy our coming old
age. Oh ! if you are in earnest, and will transplant yourself
to Roehampton how happy I shall be ! You know, if you
believe an experience of above thirty years that you are one of
the very, very few for whom I really care a straw. You know
how long I have been vexed for seeing so little of you. What
has one to do when one grows tired of the world, as we both do,
but to draw nearer and nearer, and gently waste the remains
of life with the friends with whom one began it ! Young and
happy people will have no regard for us and our old stories ;
and they are in the right : but we shall not tire one another ;
we shall laugh together when nobody is by to laugh at us, and
we may think ourselves young enough, when we see nobody
younger.

(From The Saine.)

THE ORIGINALITY OF HOGARTH'S GENIUS

It is another proof that he drew all his stores from nature
and the force of his own genius, and was indebted neither to
models nor books for his style, thoughts or hints, that he never
succeeded when he designed for the works of other men. I do
not speak of his early performances at the time that he was en-

26

GILBERT WHITE

gaged by booksellers, and rose not above those they generally
employ ; but in his maturer age, when he had invented his art,
and gave a few designs for some great authors — as Cervantes,
Gulliver, and even Hudibras, his compositions were tame, spirit-
less, void of humour, and never reach the merits of the books
they were designed to illustrate. He could not bend his talents
to think after anybody else. He could think like a great genius
rather than after one. I have a sketch in oil that he gave me,
which he intended to engrave. It was done at the time that
the House of Commons appointed a Committee to inquire into
the cruelties exercised on prisoners in the Fleet to extort money
from them. The scene is the Committee ; on the table are the
instruments of torture. A prisoner in rags, half starved, appears
before them ; the poor man has a good countenance that adds
to the interest. On the other hand is the inhuman gaoler. It
is the very figure that Salvator Rosa would have drawn for lago
in the moment of detection. Villany, fear, and conscience are
mixed in yellow and livid on his countenance, his lips are con-
tracted by tremor, his face advances as eager to lie, his legs step
back as thinking to make his escape ; one hand is thrust precipi-
tately into his bosom, the fingers of the other are catching uncer-
tainly at his buttonholes. If this was a portrait, it is the most
speaking that ever was drawn ; if it was not, it is still finer.

(From Anecdotes of Painting.)

Gilbert White

1720-1793.

SOME NOTES ON BIRDS

ON the twelfth of July I had a fair opportunity of contemplating
the motions of the caprimulgus or fern owl, as it was playing
round a large oak that swarmed with scarabae solstitiales, or fern
chafers. The powers of its wing were wonderful, exceeding, if pos-
sible, the various evolutions and quick turns of the swallow genus.
But the circumstance that pleased me most was, that I saw it

27

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

distinctly more than once put out its short leg while on the wing,
and, by a bend of the head, deliver somewhat into its mouth.
If it takes any part of its prey with its foot, as I have now the
greatest reason to suppose it does these chafers, I no longer
wonder at the use of its middle toe, which is curiously furnished
with a serrated claw.

Swallows and martins, the bulk of them I mean, have forsaken
us sooner this year than usual ; for on Sept. the 22nd, they
rendezvoused in a neighbour's walnut tree, where it seemed
probable they had taken up their lodgings for the night. At the
dawn of the day, which was foggy, they rose all together in
infinite numbers, occasioning such a rushing from the strokes
of their wings against the hazy air, as might be heard to a con-
siderable distance ; since that, no flock has appeared, only a few
stragglers. Some swifts stayed late, till the 22nd of August ;
a rare instance ! for they usually withdraw within the first week.

On September the 24th, three or four ringousels appeared
in my fields for the first time this season. How punctual are
these visitors in their autumnal and spring migrations !

(From Natural History of Selbourne.)

LOVE OF FELLOWSHIP IN ANIMALS

There is a wonderful spirit of sociality in the brute creation,
independent of sexual attachment : the congregating of gre-
garious birds in the winter is a remarkable instance.

Many horses, though quiet with company will not stay one
minute in a field by themselves : the strongest fences cannot re-
strain them. My neighbour's horse will not only not stay by him-
self abroad, but he will not bear to be left alone in a strange
stable without discovering the utmost impatience, and endeavour-
ing to break the rack and manger with his fore feet. He has been
known to leap out at a stable-window, through which dung was
thrown, after company ; and yet in other respects is remarkably
quiet. Oxen and cows will not fatten by themselves ; but will
neglect the finest pasture that is not recommended by society.
It would be needless to instance in sheep, which constantly

28

GILBERT WHITE

flock together. But this propensity seems not to be confined
to animals of the same species ; for we know a doe, still alive,
that was brought up from a little fawn with a dairy of cows ;
with them it goes afield,and with them it returns to the yard. The
dogs of the house take no notice of this deer, being used to her ;
but, if strange dogs come by, a chase ensues ; while the master
smiles to see his favourite securely leading her pursuers over
hedge or gate or stile, till she returns to the cows, who, with
fierce lowings and menacing horns, drive the assailants quite
out of the pasture.

Even great disparity of kind and size does not always prevent
social advances and mutual fellowship. For a very intelligent
and observant person has assured me, that in the former part of
his life, keeping but one horse, he happened also on a time to
have but one solitary hen. These two incongruous animals
spent much of their time together in a lonely orchard, where
they saw no. creature but each other. By degrees an apparent
regard began to take place between these two sequestered in-
dividuals. The fowl would approach the quadruped with
notes of complacency, rubbing herself gently against his legs ;
while the horse would look down with satisfaction, and move
with the greatest caution and circumspection, lest he should
trample on his diminutive companion. Thus, by mutual good
offices, each seemed to console the vacant hours of the other :
so that Milton, when he puts the following sentiment in the
mouth of Adam, seems to be somewhat mistaken : —

" Much less can bird with beast, or fish with fowl,
So well converse, nor with the ox the ape."

(From The Same,}

2Q

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Samuel Richardson

1689-1761.

LETTER FROM MISS CLARISSA HARLOWE TO MISS

HOWE

(The Harlowe family wish to force Clarissa into marriage with
Mr. Solmes.)

FRIDAY, March yd.

OH, my dear friend, I have had a sad conflict ! Trial upon trial ;
conference upon conference ! But what law, what ceremony,
can give a man a right to a heart which abhors him more than
it does any living creature ?

I hope my mother will be able to prevail for me. — But I will
recount all, though I sit up the whole night to do it ; for I have
a vast deal to write, and will be as minute as you wish me to be.

I concluded my last in a fright. It was occasioned by a con-
versation that passed between my mother and my aunt, part of
which Hannah overheard. I need not give you the particulars,
since what I have to relate to you from different conversations
that have passed between my mother and me, in the space of a
very few hours, will include them all. I will begin then.

I went down this morning, when breakfast was ready, with a
very uneasy heart, from what Hannah had informed me of
yesterday afternoon ; wishing for an opportunity, however, to
appeal to my mother, in hopes to engage her interest in my behalf,
and purposing to try to find one when she retired to her own
apartment after breakfast : but unluckily there was the odious
Solmes sitting asquat between my mother and sister, with so
much assurance in his looks ! — but you know, my dear, that
those we love not cannot do anything to please us.

Had the wretch kept his seat, it might have been well enough ;
but the bent and broad-shouldered creature must needs rise, and
stalk towards a chair, which was justly that which was set for
me.

30

SAMUEL RICHARDSON

I removed it to a distance, as if to make way to my own ; and
down I sat, abruptly I believe ; what I had heard, all in my head.

But this was not enough to daunt him. The man is a very
confident, he is a very bold, staring man ! — Indeed, my dear, the
man is very confident. He took the removed chair, and drew
it so near mine, squatting in it with his ugly weight, that he
pressed upon my hoop. I was so offended (all I had heard, as I
said, in my head), that I removed to another chair. I own I had
too little command of myself. It gave my brother and sister too
much advantage. I daresay they took it. But I did it involun-
tarily, I think. I could not help it — I knew not what I did.

I saw that my father was excessively displeased. When
angry, no man's countenance ever shows it so much as my father's.
Clarissa Harlowe! said he with a big voice — and there he stopped.
— Sir, said I, trembling and courtesying (for I had not then sat
down again) ; and put my chair nearer the wretch, and sat
down — my face, as I could feel, all in a glow.

Make tea, child, said my kind mamma ; sit by me, love, and
make tea.

I removed with pleasure to the seat the man had quitted ;
and being thus indulgently put into employment, soon recovered
myself ; and in the course of the breakfasting officiously asked
two or three questions of Mr. Solmes, which I would not have
done, but to make up with my father. — Proud spirits may be
brought to ! whisperingly spoke my sister to me over her shoulder,
with an air of triumph and scorn : but I did not mind her.

My mother was all kindness and condescension. I asked
her once, if she were pleased with the tea ? She said softly
(and again called me dear] she was pleased with all I did. I was
very proud of this encouraging goodness, and all blew over, as I
hoped between my father and me ; for he also spoke kindly to
me two or three times. Small accidents these, my dear, to
trouble you with ; only as they lead to greater, as you shall hear.

Before the usual breakfast time was over, my father withdrew
with my mother, telling her he wanted to speak to her. Then my
sister and next my aunt, (who was with us) dropt away.

31

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

My brother gave himself some airs of insult, which I under-
stood well enough ; but which Mr. Solmes could make nothing
of : and at last he arose from his seat — Sister, said he, I have
a curiosity to show you. I will fetch it. And away he went,
shutting the door close after him. I saw what all this was for. I
arose ; the man hemming up for a speech, rising and beginning to
set his splay-feet (indeed, my dear, the man in all his ways
is hateful to me), in an approaching posture. — I will save my
brother the trouble of bringing to me his curiosity, said I. I
courtesied — Your servant, sir. — The man cried, Madam, madam,
twice, and looked like a fool. — But away I went — to find my
brother, to save my word. But my brother, indifferent as the
weather was, was gone to walk in the garden with my sister.
A plain case that he had left his curiosity with me, and designed
to show me no other.

I had but just got into my own apartment, and began to think
of sending Hannah to beg an audience of my mother (the more
encouraged by her condescending goodness at breakfast), when
Shorey, her woman, brought me her commands to attend me
in her closet.

My father, Hannah told me, was just gone out of it with a
positive angry countenance. Then I as much dreaded the audi-
ence as I had wished for it before. I went down, however, but
apprehending the subject she intended to talk to me upon,
approached her trembling, and my heart in visible palpita-
tions.

She saw my concern. Holding out her kind arms, as she sat,
Come kiss me, my dear, said she, with a smile like a sunbeam
breaking through the cloud that overshadowed her naturally
benign aspect — why nutters my jewel so ?

This preparative sweetness, with her goodness just before, con-
firmed my apprehensions. My mother saw the bitter pill
wanted gilding.

Oh, my mamma ! was all I could say ; and I clasped arms
round her neck, and my face sunk into her bosom.

My child ! my child ! restrain, said she, your powers of moving !

32

SAMUEL RICHARDSON

I dare not else trust myself with you. And my tears trickled
down her bosom, as hers bedewed my neck.

Oh the words of kindness, all to be expressed in vain, that
flowed from her lips !

Lift up your sweet face, my best child, my own Clarissa
Harlowe ! Oh, my daughter, best beloved of my heart, lift up
a face so ever amiable to me ! Why these sobs ? Is an appre-
hended duty so affecting a thing, that before I can speak — but
I am glad my love, my love, you can guess at what I have to say
to you. I am spared the pains of breaking to you what was
a task upon me reluctantly enough undertaken to break to you.

Then rising, she drew a chair near her own, and made me sit
down by her, overwhelmed as I was with tears of apprehension
of what she had to say, and of gratitude for her truly maternal
goodness to me — sobs still my only language.

And drawing her chair still nearer to mine, she put her arms
round my neck, and my glowing cheek wet with my tears, close
to her own : Let me talk to you, my child. Since silence is your
choice, hearken to me, and be silent.

You know, my dear, what I every day forego, and undergo,
for the sake of peace. Your papa is a very good man and
means well ; but he will not be controlled nor yet persuaded.
You have sometimes seemed to pity me, that I am obliged to give
up every point. Poor man ! his reputation the less for it : mine
the greater ; yet would I not have this credit, if I could help it,
at so dear a rate to him and to myself. You are a dutiful, a
prudent, and a wise child, she was pleased to say, in hope, no
doubt, to make me so : you would not add, I am sure, to my
trouble : you would not wilfully break that peace which costs
your mother so much to preserve. Obedience is better than
sacrifice. Oh, my Clary Harlowe, rejoice my heart, by telling
me I have apprehended too much : — I see your concern ! I see
your perplexity ! I see your conflict [loosing her arm, and rising,
not willing I should see how much she herself was affected]. I
will leave you a moment. Answer me not, [for I was essaying to
speak, and had, as soon as she took her dear cheek from mine,

VOL. vi. 33 D

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

drop! down on my knees, my hands clasped, and lifted up in a
supplicating manner]. I am not prepared for your irresistible
expostulation, she was pleased to say. I will leave you to re-
collection ! and I charge you, on my blessing, that all this my
truly maternal tenderness be not thrown away upon you.

And then she withdrew into the next apartment ; wiping her
eyes as she went from me ; as mine overflowed ; my heart taking
in the whole compass of her meaning.

She soon returned, having recovered more steadiness. Still
on my knees, I had thrown my face across the chair she had sat
in.

Look up to me, my Clary Harlowe — No sullenness I hope !

No indeed, my ever-to-be-revered mamma. — And I arose. I
bent my knee.

She raised me. No kneeling to me, but with knees of duty and
compliance. Your heart, not your knees, must bend. It is
absolutely determined. Prepare yourself therefore to receive
your father, when he visits you by and by, as he would wish to
receive you. But on this one quarter of an hour depends the
peace of my future life, the satisfaction of ah" the family, and your
security from a man of violence : and I charge you besides, on my
blessing, that you think of being Mrs. Solmes.

There went the dagger to my heart, and down I sunk : and when
I recovered found myself in the arms of my Hannah, my sister's
Betty holding -open my reluctantly-opened palm, my laces cut,
my linen scented with hartshorn ; and my mother gone. Had I
been less kindly treated, the hated name still forborne to be
mentioned, or mentioned with a little more preparation and
reserve, I had stood the horrid sound with less visible emotion —
but to be bid, on the blessing of a mother so dearly beloved,
so truly reverenced, to think of being Mrs. SOLMES — what a
denunciation was that.

Shorey came in with a message (delivered in her solemn way) :
Your mamma, Miss, is concerned for your disorder : she expects
you down again in an hour ; and bid me say, that she then hopes
everything from your duty.

34

HENRY FIELDING

I made no reply ; for what could I say ? And leaning upon my
Hannah's arm withdrew to my own apartment. There you will
guess how the greatest part of the hour was employed.

(From The History of Clarissa Harlowe, Letter xvii.)

Henry Fielding

1707-1754.

SOPHIA'S BIRD

THOUGH the different tempers of Mr. Allworthy and of Mr.
Western did not admit of a very intimate correspondence, yet
they lived upon what is called a decent footing together ; by
which means the young people of both families had been
acquainted from their infancy ; and as they were all near of
the same age, had been frequent playmates together.

The gaiety of Tom's temper suited better with Sophia than
the grave and sober disposition of Master Blifil. And the
preference which she gave the former of these would often
appear so plainly, that a lad of a more passionate turn than
Master Blifil was, might have shown some displeasure at it.

As he did not, however, outwardly express such disgust,
it would be an ill office in us to pay a visit to the inmost recesses
of his mind, as some scandalous people search into the most
secret affairs of their friends, and often pry into their closets and
cupboards, only to discover their poverty and meanness to the
world.

However, as persons who suspect they have given others
cause of offence are apt to conclude they are offended, so Sophia
imputed an action of Master Blifil to his anger, which the
superior sagacity of Thwackum and Square discerned to have
arisen from a much better principle.

Tom Jones, when very young, had presented Sophia with a
little bird, which he had taken from the nest, had nursed up,
and taught to sing.

Of this bird, Sophia, then about thirteen years old, was so

35

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

extremely fond, that her chief business was to feed and tend
it, and her chief pleasure to play with it. By these means
little Tommy, for so the bird was called, was become so tame,
that it would feed out of the hand of its mistress, would perch
upon her finger, and lie contented in her bosom, where it seemed
almost sensible of its own happiness ; though she always kept
a small string about its leg, nor would ever trust it with the
liberty of flying away.

One day, when Mr. Allworthy and his whole family dined at
Mr. Western's, Master Blifil, being in the garden with little
Sophia, and observing the extreme fondness that she showed
for the little bird, desired her to trust it for a moment in his
hands. Sophia presently complied with the young gentleman's
request, and after some previous caution, delivered him her bird,
of which he was no sooner in possession, than he slipped the
string from its leg and tossed it into the air.

The foolish animal no sooner perceived itself at liberty, than,
forgetting all the favours it had received from Sophia, it flew
directly from her, and perched on a bough at some distance.

Sophia, seeing her bird gone, screamed out so loud that Tom
Jones, who was at a little distance, immediately ran to her
assistance.

He was no sooner informed of what had happened than
he cursed Blifil for a pitiful malicious rascal ; and then imme-
diately slipping off his coat, he applied himself to climbing the
tree to which the bird had escaped.

Tom had almost recovered his little namesake, when the
branch on which it was perched, and that hung over a canal,
broke, and the poor lad plumped over head and ears into the
water.

Sophia's concern now changed its object. And as she appre-
hended the boy's life was in danger, she screamed ten times
louder than before, and indeed Master Blifil himself now seconded
her with all the vociferation in his power.

The company, who were sitting in a room next the garden,
were instantly alarmed, and came all forth ; but just as they

36

HENRY FIELDING

reached the canal, Tom (for the water was luckily pretty shallow
in that part) arrived safely on shore.

Thwackum fell violently on poor Tom, who stood dripping
and shivering before him, when Mr. Allworthy desired him to
have patience ; and, turning to Master Blifil, said, " Pray, child,
what is the reason of all this disturbance ? "

Master Blifil answered : " Indeed, uncle, I am very sorry
for what I have done ; I have been unhappily the occasion
of it all. I had Miss Sophia's bird in my hand, and thinking the
poor creature languished for liberty, I own I could not forbear
giving it what it desired ; for I always thought there was some-
thing very cruel in confining anything. It seemed to be against
the law of nature, by which everything has a right to liberty ;
nay it is even unchristian, for it is not doing what we would be
done of : but if I had imagined Miss Sophia would have been so
much concerned at it, I am sure I never would have done it ;
nay, if I had known what would have happened to the bird
itself, for when Master Jones, who climbed up that tree after it,
fell into the water, the bird took a second flight, and presently
a nasty hawk carried it away.

Poor Sophia, who now first heard of her little Tommy's fate
(for her concern for Jones had prevented her perceiving it when
it happened) shed a shower of tears. These Mr. Allworthy
endeavoured to assuage, promising her a much finer bird : but
she declared she would never have another.

(From Tom Jones.)

ON GOOD AND BAD CHARACTERS

In the next place, we must admonish thee, my worthy friend,
(for perhaps thy heart may be better than thy head), not to
condemn a character as a bad one, because it is not perfectly
a good one. If thou dost delight in these models of perfection
there are books enow written to gratify thy taste ; but as we
have not, in the course of our conversation, ever happened
to meet with any such person, we have not chosen to introduce
any such here. To say the truth, I a little question whether mere

37

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

men ever arrived at this consummate degree of excellence,
as well as whether there ever existed a monster bad enough
to verify that

Nulla virtute redemptum

A vitiis-

in Juvenal ; nor do I, indeed, conceive the good purposes served
by inserting characters of such angelic perfection or such
diabolical depravity in any work of invention ; since, from con-
templating either, the mind of man is more likely to be over-
whelmed with sorrow and shame than to draw any goodness
from such patterns : for in the former instance he may be both
concerned and ashamed to see a pattern of excellence in his
nature, which he may reasonably despair of ever arriving at ;
and in contemplating the latter he may be no less affected with
those uneasy sensations, at seeing the nature of which he is
a partaker degraded into so odious and detestable a creature.

(From The Same.)

Tobias Smollett

1721-1771.

A STORM AT SEA

WE got out of the channel with a prosperous breeze, which
died away, leaving us becalmed about fifty leagues to the west-
ward of the Lizard : but this state of inaction did not last long ;
for next night our main-top sail was split by the wind which
in the morning increased to a hurricane. I was wakened by a
most horrible din, occasioned by the play of the gun-carriages
upon the deck above, the cracking of cabins, the howling of the
wind through the shrouds, the confused noise of the ship's
crew, the pipes of the boatswain and his mates, the trumpets of
the lieutenants, and the clanking of the chain pumps. Morgan,
who had never been at sea before, turned out in a great hurry,
crying, " Got have mercy and compassion upon us ! I believe

we have got upon the confines of Lucifer and the d n'd ! "

38

LAURENCE STERNE

While poor Thomson lay quaking in his hammock, putting up
petitions to heaven for our safety, I rose and joined the Welsh-
man, with whom, (after having fortified ourselves with brandy)
I went above ; but if my sense of hearing was startled before,
how must my sight have been appalled in beholding the effects
of the storm ! The sea was swelled into billows mountains
high, on the top of which our ship sometimes hung as if it was
about to be precipitated to the abyss below. Sometimes we
sunk between two waves that rose on each side higher than
our top-most head, and threatened by dashing together to
overwhelm us in a moment ! Of all our fleet, consisting of a
hundred and fifty sail, scarce twelve appeared, and these driving
under their bare poles, at the mercy of the tempest. At length
the mast of one of them gave way, and tumbled overboard with
a hideous crash ! Nor was the prospect in our own ship much more
agreeable ; a number of officers and sailors ran backward and
forward with distraction in their looks, hallowing to one another,
and undetermined what they should attend to first. Some
clung to the yards, endeavouring to unbend the sails that were
split into a thousand pieces flapping in the wind ; others tried
to furl those which were yet whole, while the masts, at every
pitch, bent and quivered like twigs, as if they would have
shivered into innumerable splinters ! While I considered this
scene with equal terror and astonishment, one of the main braces
broke, by the shock whereof two sailors were flung from the
yard's arm into the sea, where they perished, and poor Jack
Rattlin was thrown down upon the deck, at the expense of a
broken leg.

(From Roderick Random.)

Laurence Sterne

1713-1768.

UNCLE TOBY

MY uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries ; — not from want
of courage ; — I have told you in a former chapter, " that he

39

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

was a man of courage " : and will add here, that where just
occasion presented, or called it forth, — I know no man under
whose arm I would have sooner taken shelter ; — nor did this
arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual
parts ; — . . . but he was of a peaceful placid nature, — no jarring
element in it, — all was mixed up so kindly within him ; my
uncle Toby had scarce a heart to retaliate upon a fly.

Go, — says he, one day at dinner, to an over-grown one which
had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-
time,— and which after infinite attempts, he had caught at last,
as it flew by him ; — I'll not hurt thee, says my uncle Toby,
rising from his chair, and going across the room, with the fly
in his hand, — I'll not hurt a hair of thy head : — Go, says he,
lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it
escape ; — go, poor devil, get thee gone, why should I hurt thee ?
• — This world is surely wide enough to hold both thee and me.

(From Tristram Shandy.)

CORPORAL TRIM PREPARING TO READ

| Begin, Trim, — and read distinctly, quoth my father. — I will
an' please your honour, replied the Corporal ; making a bow,
and bespeaking attention with a slight movement of his right
hand.

But before the Corporal begins, I must first give you a
description of his attitude ; — otherwise he will naturally stand
represented, by your imagination in an uneasy posture, — stiff, —
perpendicular — dividing the weight of his body equally upon
both legs ; — his eyes fixed as if on duty ; — his look determined,
clenching the sermon in his left hand, like his forelock. — In a
word, you would be apt to paint Trim as if he was standing in
his platoon ready for action. — His attitude was as unlike all
this as you can conceive.

He stood before them with his body swayed and bent forwards,
just so far as to make an angle of 85 degrees and a half upon
the plain of the horizon ; — which sound orators, to whom I
address this, know very well to be the true persuasive angle of

40

LAURENCE STERNE

incidence ; in any other angle you may talk and preach ; — 'tis
certain ; — and it is done every day ; — but with what effect, —
I leave the world to judge !

The necessity of this precise angle of 85 degrees and a half to a
mathematical exactness, — does it not show us, by the way,
how the arts and sciences mutually befriend each other ?

How the deuce Corporal Trim, who knew not so much as an
acute angle from an obtuse one, came to hit it so exactly ; — or
whether it was by chance, or nature or good sense, or imitation,
etc., shall be commented upon in that part of the Cyclopaedia
of Arts and Sciences where the instrumental parts of the
eloquence of the Senate, the pulpit, and the bar, the coffee-
house, the bed-chamber, and fire-side, fall under consideration.

He stood- -for I repeat it, to take the picture of him in at
one view, with his body swayed, and somewhat bent forwards ;
— his right leg firm under him, sustaining seven-eighths of his
whole weight, — the foot of his left leg, the defect of which was
no disadvantage to his attitude, advanced a little, — not laterally,
nor forwards, but in a line betwixt them ; — his knee bent,
but that not violently, — but so as to fall within the limits of
the line of beauty ; — and I add of the line of science too ; for
consider, it had one-eighth part of his body to bear up ; — so
that in this case the position of the leg is determined, — because
the foot could be no farther advanced, or the knee more bent,
than what would allow him mechanically to receive an eighth
part of his whole weight under it, and to carry it too.

This I recommend to painters ; — need I add, to orators ! —
I think not ; for unless they practise it, — they must fall upon
their noses.

So much for Corporal Trim's body and legs. — He held the
sermon loosely, not carelessly, in his left hand, raised some-
thing above his stomach, and detached a little from his breast ;
his right arm falling negligently by his side, as nature and the
law of gravity ordered it, — but with the palm of it open and
turned towards his audience, ready to aid the sentiment in
case it stood in need.

4*

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Corporal Trim's eyes and the muscles of his face were in
full harmony with the other parts of him ; — he looked frank, —
unconstrained, — something assured, — but not bordering upon
assurance.

Let not the critic ask how Corporal Trim could come by all
this — I've told him it should be explained ; — but so he stood
before my father, my uncle Toby and Dr. Slop ; — so swayed
his body, so contrasted his limbs, and with such an oratorical
sweep throughout the whole figure, — a statuary might have
modelled from it ; — nay, I doubt whether the oldest Fellow of
a College — or the Hebrew Professor himself, could have much
mended it.

Trim made a bow, and read as follows.

(From Tristram Shandy.)

Frances Burney

(MADAME D'ARBLAY)

1752-1840.

EVELINA (ON A VISIT TO LADY HOWARD) WRITES
TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS (HER ADOPTED FATHER)

HOWARD GROVE,

March 26.

THIS house seems to be the house of joy ; every face wears a
smile, and a laugh is at everybody's service. It is quite amusing
to walk about and see the general confusion. A room leading
to the garden is fitting up for Captain Mirvan's study, Lady
Howard does not sit a moment in a place, Miss Mirvan is making
caps ; everybody so busy ! — such flying from room to room ! —
so many orders given and retracted, and given again, — nothing
but hurry and perturbation.

Well but, my dear Sir, I am desired to make a request to
you. I hope you will not think me an encroacher : Lady
Howard insists upon my writing ! — yet I hardly know how to
go on ; a petition implies a want, — and have you left me one ?
No, indeed.

42

FRANCES BURNEY

I am half ashamed of myself for beginning this letter. But
these dear ladies are so pressing — I cannot, for my life, resist
wishing for the pleasures they offer me, provided you do not
disapprove them.

They are to make a very short stay in town. The captain will
meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mirvan and her sweet daughter
both go ; what a happy party ! Yet I am not very eager to
accompany them : at least I shall be contented to remain where
I am, if you desire that I should.

Assured, my dear Sir, of your goodness, your bounty, and
your indulgent kindness, ought I to form a wish that has not
your sanction ? Decide for me, therefore, without the least
apprehension that I shall be uneasy or discontented. While I
am yet in suspense, perhaps I may hope ; but I am most certain,
that when you have once determined I shall not repine.

They tell me that London is now in full splendour. Two play-
houses are open, — the Opera House, — Ranelagh, — and the
Pantheon. — You see I have learned all their names. However,
pray don't suppose that I make any point of going ; for I shall
hardly sigh, to see them depart without me, though I shall prob-
ably never meet with such another opportunity. And, indeed,
their domestic happiness will be so great, — it is natural to
wish to partake of it.

I believe I am bewitched ! I made a resolution, when I began,
that I would not be urgent ; but my pen — or rather my thoughts,
will not suffer me to keep it — for I acknowledge, I must acknow-
ledge, I cannot help wishing for your permission.

I almost repent already that I have made this confession ;
pray forget that you have read it, if this journey is displeasing
to you. But I will not write any longer ; for the more I think
of this affair, the less indifferent to it I find myself.

Adieu, my most honoured, most reverenced, most beloved
father ! for by what other name can I call you ? I have no
happiness or sorrow, no hope or fear, but what your kindness
bestows, or your displeasure may cause. You will not, I am
sure, send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and therefore

43

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

I shall cheerfully acquiesce. Yet I hope — I hope you will be
able to permit me to go !

I am with the utmost affection,
gratitude and duty,

Your EVELINA.

MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA

BERRY HILL,

March 28.

To resist the urgency of entreaty, is a power which I have not
yet acquired : I aim not at an authority which deprives you of
liberty, yet I would fain guide myself by a prudence which would
save me the pangs of repentance. Your impatience to fly to
a place which your imagination has painted to you in colours
so attractive, surprises me not ; I have only to hope, that the
liveliness of your fancy may not deceive you : to refuse would
be raising it still higher. To see my Evelina happy, is to see
myself without a wish : go then, my child ; and may that Heaven
which alone can direct, preserve and strengthen you ! To that,
my love, will I daily offer prayers for your felicity. O may it
guard, watch over you, defend you from danger, save you from
distress, and keep vice as distant from your person as from
your heart ! And to me may it grant the ultimate blessing of
closing these aged eyes in the arms of one so dear — so deservedly
beloved !

ARTHUR VILLARS.

William Robertson

1721-1793.

A SCOTTISH VIEW OF QUEEN ELIZABETH

FOREIGNERS often accuse the English of indifference and dis-
respect towards their princes ; but without reason. No people
are more grateful than they to those monarchs who merit their
gratitude. The names of Edward III and Henry V are mentioned

44

WILLIAM ROBERTSON

by the English of this age with the same warmth as they were
by those who shared in the blessings and splendours of their
reigns. The memory of Elizabeth is still adored in England.
The historians of that kingdom, after celebrating her love of
her people ; her sagacity in discerning their true interest ; her
steadiness in pursuing it ; her wisdom in the choice of her
ministers ; the glory she acquired by arms ; the tranquillity
she secured to her subjects ; and the increase of fame, of riches,
and of commerce, which were the fruits of all these, justly rank
her among the most illustrious princes. Even the defects in
her character, they observe, were not of a kind pernicious to
her people. Her excessive frugality was not accompanied with
the love of hoarding ; and, though it prevented some great
undertakings, and rendered the success of others incomplete, it
introduced economy into her administration, and exempted the
nation from many burdens, which a monarch more profuse or
more enterprising must have imposed. Her slowness in reward-
ing her servants sometimes discouraged useful merit ; but it
prevented the undeserving from acquiring power and wealth to
which they had no title. Her extreme jealousy of those princes
who pretended to dispute her right to the crown, led her to take
such precautions, as tended no less to the public safety, than to
her own ; and to court the affections of her people, as the firmest
support of her throne. Such is the picture which the English
draw of this great queen.

Whoever undertakes to write the history of Scotland, finds
himself obliged, frequently, to view her in a very different, and
in a less amiable light. Her authority, in that kingdom, during
the greater part of her reign, was little inferior to that which
she possessed hi her own. But this authority, acquired at first by
a service of great importance to the nation, she exercised in a
manner extremely pernicious to its happiness. By her industry
in fomenting the rage of the two contending factions ; by supply-
ing the one with partial aid ; by feeding the other with false
hopes ; by balancing their power so artfully, that each of them
was able to distress, and neither of them to subdue the other ;

45

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

she rendered Scotland long the seat of discord, confusion, and
bloodshed ; and her craft and intrigues, effecting what the
valour of her ancestors could not accomplish, reduced that
kingdom to a state of dependence on England. The maxims of
policy, often little consonant to those of morality, may, perhaps,
justify this conduct. But no apology can be offered for her
behaviour to Queen Mary, a scene of dissimulation without
necessity, and of severity beyond example. In almost all her
other actions, Elizabeth is the object of our highest admiration ;
in this we must allow that she not only laid aside the magnanimity
which became a queen, but the feelings natural to a woman.

(From the History of Scotland.)

Edward Gibbon

1737-1794.

THE TRIUMPH OF AURELIAN

SINCE the foundation of Rome no general had more nobly deserved
a triumph than Aurelian ; nor was a triumph ever celebrated
with superior pride and magnificence. The pomp was opened
by twenty elephants, four royal tigers, and above two hundred
of the most curious animals from every climate of the north,
the east, and the south. They were followed by sixteen hundred
gladiators, devoted to the cruel amusement of the amphitheatre.
The wealth of Asia, the arms and ensigns of so many conquered
nations, and the magnificent plate and wardrobe of the Syrian
queen, were disposed in exact symmetry or artful disorder. The
ambassadors of the most remote parts of the earth, of ^Ethiopia,
Arabia, Persia, Bactriana, India and China, all remarkable by
their rich or singular dresses, displayed the fame and power of
the Roman emperor, who exposed likewise to the public view the
presents that he had received, and particularly a great number
of crowns of gold, the offerings of grateful cities. The victories
of Aurelian were attested by the long train of captives who
reluctantly attended his triumph — Goths, Vandals, Sarmatians,

46

EDWARD GIBBON

Alemanni, Franks, Gauls, Syrians and Egyptians. Each people
was distinguished by its peculiar inscription, and the title of
Amazons was bestowed on ten martial heroines of the Gothic
nation who had been taken in arms. But every eye, disregarding
the crowd of captives, was fixed on the emperor Tetricus, and
the queen of the East. The former, as well as his son, whom he
had created Augustus, was dressed in Gallic trowsers, a saffron
tunic, and a robe of purple. The beauteous figure of Zenobia
was confined by fetters of gold ; a slave supported the gold chain
which encircled her neck, and she almost fainted under the
intolerable weight of jewels. She preceded on foot the magni-
cent chariot in which she once hoped to enter the gates of Rome.
It was followed by two other chariots, still more sumptuous, of
Odenathus ?nd of the Persian monarch. The triumphal car of
Aurelian (it had formerly been used by a Gothic king), was
drawn on this memorable occasion, either by four stags or by
four elephants. The most illustrious of the senate, the people,
and the army closed the solemn procession. ... So long and
so various was the pomp of Aurelian's triumph, that although
it opened with the dawn of day, the slow majesty of the procession
ascended not the Capital before the ninth hour ; and it was
already dark when the emperor returned to the palace.

(From the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.}

THE HARBOUR OF CONSTANTINOPLE

The harbour of Constantinople, which may be considered as
an arm of the Bosphorus, obtained in a very remote period, the
denomination of the Golden Horn. The curve which it describes
might be compared to the horn of a stag, or as it should seem
with more propriety, to that of an ox. The epithet of golden
was expressive of the riches which every wind wafted from the
most distant countries into the secure and capacious port of
Constantinople. The river Lycus, formed by the conflux of two
little streams, pours into the harbour a perpetual supply of
fresh water, which serves to cleanse the bottom and to invite

47

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

the periodical shoals of fish to seek their retreat in that convenient
recess. As the vicissitudes of tides are scarcely felt in those
seas, the constant depth of the harbour allows goods to be landed
on the quays without the assistance of boats ; and it has been
observed that, in many places, the largest vessels may rest then-
prows against the houses while their sterns are floating in the
water. From the mouth of the Lycus to that of the harbour
this arm of the Bosphorus is more than seven miles in length.
The entrance is about five hundred yards broad, and a strong
chain could be occasionally drawn across it to guard the port and
city from the attack of an hostile navy.

(From The Same.)

THE CHARACTER OF THE EMPEROR JULIAN

The generality of princes, if they were stripped of their purple
and cast naked into the world, would immediately sink to the
lowest rank of society, without a hope of emerging from their
obscurity. But the personal merit of Julian was, in some
measure, independent of his fortune. Whatever had been his
choice of life, by the force of intrepid courage, lively wit, and
intense application, he would have obtained, or at least he would
have deserved, the highest honours of his profession, and Julian
might have raised himself to the rank of minister or general of
the state in which he was born a private citizen. If the jealous
caprice of power had disappointed his expectations ; if he had
prudently declined the paths of greatness, the employment of
the same talents in studious solitude would have placed beyond
the reach of kings his present happiness and his immortal fame.
When we inspect with minute, or perhaps malevolent, attention,
the portrait of Julian, something seems wanting to the grace and
perfection of the whole figure. His genius was less powerful
and sublime than that of Caesar, nor did he possess the consum-
mate prudence of Augustus. The virtues of Trajan appear more
steady and natural, and the philosophy of Marcus is more simple
and consistent. Yet Julian sustained adversity with firmness,
and prosperity with moderation. After an interval of one hun-

48

DAVID HUME

dred and twenty years from the death of Alexander Severus, the
Romans beheld an emperor who made no distinction between
his duties and his pleasures, who laboured to relieve the distress
and to revive the spirit of his subjects, and who endeavoured
always to connect authority with merit, and happiness with
virtue. Even faction, and religious faction, was constrained to
acknowledge the superiority of his genius in peace as well as
in war, and to confess, with a sigh, that the apostate Julian was
a lover of his country, and that he deserved the empire of the
world.

(From The Same.)

David Hume

1711-1776.

THE PRINCE OF ORANGE AND THE REVOLT OF THE
NETHERLANDS

WILLIAM, Prince of Orange, descended from a sovereign family,
of great lustre and antiquity, in Germany, inheriting the pos-
sessions of a sovereign family in France, had fixed his residence
in the Low Countries ; and, on account of his noble birth and
immense riches, as well as of his personal merit, was universally
regarded as the greatest subject that lived in those provinces.
He had opposed, by all regular and dutiful means, the progress
of the Spanish usurpations : and when Alva conducted his army
into the Netherlands, and assumed the government, this prince,
well acquainted with the violent character of the man, and the
tyrannical spirit of the Court of Madrid, wisely fled from the
danger which threatened him, and retired to his paternal estate
and dominions in Germany. He was cited to appear before
Alva's tribunal, was condemned in his absence, was declared a
rebel, and his ample possessions in the Low Countries were
confiscated. In revenge, he had levied an army of protestants
in the empire, and had made some attempts to restore the
Flemings to liberty ; but was still repulsed with loss by the vigi-
VOL. vi. 49 E

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

lance and military conduct of Alva, and by the great bravery,
as well as discipline, of those veteran Spaniards who served under
that general.

The revolt of Holland and Zealand, provinces which the Prince
of Orange had formerly commanded, and where he was much
beloved, called him anew from his retreat ; and he added conduct,
no less than spirit, to that obstinate resistance which was here
made to the Spanish dominion. By uniting the revolted cities
in a league, he laid the foundation of that illustrious common-
wealth, the offspring of industry and liberty, whose, arms and
policy have long made so signal a figure in every transaction
of Europe. He inflamed the inhabitants by every motive which
religious zeal, resentment, or love of freedom, could inspire.
Though the present greatness of the Spanish monarchy might
deprive them of all courage, he still flattered them with the
concurrence of the other provinces, and with assistance from
neighbouring states ; and he exhorted them, in defence of their
religion, their liberties and their lives, to endure the utmost
extremities of war. From this spirit proceeded the desperate
defence of Haarlem ; a defence which nothing but the most
consuming famine could overcome, and which the Spaniards
revenged by the execution of more than two thousand of the
inhabitants. This extreme severity, instead of striking terror
into the Hollanders, animated them by despair ; and the vigor-
ous resistance made at Alcmaer, where Alva was finally repulsed,
shewed them that their insolent enemies were not invincible.
The duke, finding at last the pernicious influence of his violent
councils, solicited to be recalled : Medinaceli, who was appointed
his successor, refused to accept the government : Requesens,
commendator of Castile, was sent from Italy to replace Alva ;
and this tyrant departed from the Netherlands in 1574, leaving
his name in execration to the inhabitants, and boasting in his
turn, that, during the course of five years, he had delivered above
eighteen thousand of these rebellious heretics into the hands of
the executioner.

(From the History of England.)
50

DAVID HUME

SYMPATHY IN ITS RELATION TO MORALS

To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred
which arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter
pretty deep, and compare some principles, which have been
already examined and explained.

We may begin with considering anew the nature and force of
sympathy. The minds of all men are similar in their feelings
and operations ; nor can anyone be actuated by any affection
of which all others are not, in some degree, susceptible. As in
strings equally wound up, the motion of one communicates itself
to the rest ; so all the affections readily pass from one person
to another, and beget correspondent movements in every human
creature. When I see the effects of passion in the voice and
gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these
effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion,
as is presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner,
when I perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed
to the effects, and is actuated by a like emotion. Were I present
at any of the more terrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain
that even before it began, the preparation of the instruments,
the laying of the bandages in order, the heating of the irons, with
all the signs of anxiety and concern in the patient and assistants,
would have a great effect upon my mind, and excite the strongest
sentiments of pity and terror. No passion of another discovers
itself immediately to the mind. We are only sensible of its
causes or effects. From these we refer the passion. And conse-
quently these give rise to our sympathy. . . .

The same principle produces, in many instances, our senti-
ments of morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more
esteemed than justice, and no vice more detested than injustice ;
nor are there any qualities which go farther to fixing the char-
acters, either as amiable or odious. Now justice is a moral
virtue, merely because it has that tendency to the good of man-
kind ; and, indeed, is nothing but an artificial invention to
that purpose. The same may be said of allegiance, of the laws

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

of nations, of modesty, and of good manners. All these are
mere human contrivances for the interest of society. And since
there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations,
and all ages, has attended them, we must allow, that the reflecting
on the tendency of characters and mental qualities, is sufficient
to give us the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now as
the means to an end can only be agreeable, where the end is
agreeable ; and as the good of society, where our own interest
is not concerned, or that of our friends, pleases only by sympathy :
it follows, that sympathy is the source of the esteem which we
pay to all the artificial virtues.

Thus it appears, that sympathy is a very powerful principle in
human nature . . . and that it produces our sentiment of morals
in all the artificial virtues. From thence we may presume, that it
also gives rise to many of the other virtues ; and that qualities
acquire our approbation, because of their tendency to the good
of mankind. This presumption must become a certainty when
we find that most of those qualities which we naturally approve
of, have actually that tendency, and render a man a proper
member of society : while the qualities which we naturally dis-
approve of have a contrary tendency, and render any intercourse
with the person dangerous or disagreeable. For having found
that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest
sentiment of morals we can never reasonably, in the cases,
look for any other cause of approbation or blame ; it being an
inviolable maxim in philosophy, that where any particular cause
is sufficient for an effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and
ought not to multiply causes without necessity. We have
happily attained experiments in the artificial virtues, where the
tendency of qualities to the good of society is the sole cause
of our approbation, without any suspicion of the concurrence
of another principle. From thence we learn the force of that
principle. And where that principle may take place, and the
quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philoso-
pher will never require any other principle to account for the
strongest approbation and esteem.

(From A Treatise of Human Nature.)
52

ADAM SMITH

Adam Smith

1723-1790.

THE WORSHIP OF RICHES AND GREATNESS

THIS disposition to admire, and almost to worship, the rich
and the powerful, and to despise, or, at least, to neglect
persons of poor and mean condition, though necessary both to
establish and to maintain the distinction of ranks and the
order of society, is, at the same time, the great and most univer-
sal cause of the corruption of our moral sentiments. That wealth
and greatness are often regarded with the respect and admiration
which are due only to wisdom and virtue ; and that the contempt
of which vice and folly are the only proper objects, often most
unjustly bestowed upon poverty and weakness, has been the
complaint of moralists in all ages.

We desire both to be respectable and to be respected. We
dread both to be contemptible and to be contemned. But, upon
coming into the world, we soon find that wisdom and virtue are
by no means the sole objects of respect ; nor vice and folly, of
contempt. We frequently see the respectful attentions of the
world more strongly directed toward the rich and the great, than
towards the wise and the virtuous. We see frequently the vices
and follies of the powerful much less despised than the poverty
and weakness of the innocent. To deserve, to acquire, and to
enjoy the respect and admiration of mankind are the great
objects of ambition and emulation. Two different roads are
presented to us, equally leading to the attainment of this so much
desired object ; the one, by the study of wisdom and the practice
of virtue ; the other, by the acquisition of wealth and greatness.
Two different characters are presented to our emulation ; the
one of proud ambition and ostentatious avidity ; the other of
humble modesty and equitable justice. Two different models,
two different pictures, are held out to us, according to which we
may fashion our own character and behaviour ; the one more
gaudy and glittering in its colouring ; the other more correct

53

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

and more exquisitely beautiful in its outline ; the one forcing
itself upon the notice of every wandering eye ; the other, attract-
ing the attention of scarce anybody but the most studious and
careful observer. They are the wise and the virtuous chiefly,
a select, though, I am afraid, but a small party, who are the real
and steady admirers of wisdom and virtue. The great mob of
mankind are the admirers and worshippers, and, what may seem
more extraordinary, most frequently the disinterested admirers
and worshippers, of wealth and greatness.

(From The Theory of Moral Sentiments.)

THE LABOUR INVOLVED IN PRODUCING THE SIMPLE
ACCOMMODATION OF LIFE

Observe the accommodation of the most common artificer
or day labourer in a civilized and thriving country, and
you will perceive that the number of people of whose industry
a part, though but a small part, has been employed in procuring
him this accommodation, exceeds all computation ! The woollen
coat, for example, which covers the day labourer, as coarse and
rough as it may appear, is the produce of the joint labour of a
great multitude of workmen. The shepherd, the sorter of the
wool, the wool-comber or carder, the dyer, the scribbler, the
spinner, the weaver, the fuller, the dresser, with many others,
must all join their different arts in order to complete even this
homely production. How many merchants and carriers, be-
sides, must have been employed in transporting the materials
from some of those workmen to others who often live in a very
distant part of the country ! How much commerce and naviga-
tion in particular, how many ship-builders, sailors, sailmakers,
ropemakers, must have been employed in order to bring together
the different drugs made use of by the dyer, which often come
from the remotest corners of the world ! What a variety of
labour, too, is necessary in order to produce the tools of the
meanest of those workmen ! To say nothing of such compli-
cated machines as the ship of the sailor, the mill of the fuller, or
even the loom of the weaver, let us consider only what a variety

54

ADAM SMITH

of labour is requisite in order to form that very simple machine
the shears with which the shepherd clips the wool. The miner,
the builder of the furnace for smelting the ore, the feller of the
timber, the burner of the charcoal to be made use of in the smelt-
ing house, the brick-maker, the bricklayer, the workmen who
attend the furnace, the mill-wright, the forger, the smith, most
all of them join their different arts in order to produce them.
Were we to examine in the same manner all the different parts of
his dress and household furniture, the coarse linen shirt which he
wears next his skin, the shoes which cover his feet, the bed which
he lies on, and all the different parts which compose it, the kit-
chen grate at which he prepares his victuals, the coals which he
makes use of for that purpose, dug from the bowels of the earth
and brought to him perhaps by a long sea and a long land carriage,
all the other utensils of his kitchen, all the furniture of his table,
the knives and forks, the earthern or pewter plates upon which
he serves up and divides his victuals, the different hands em-
ployed in preparing his bread and his beer, the glass window
which lets in the heat and the light, and keeps out the wind and
the rain, with all the knowledge and art requisite for preparing
that beautiful and happy invention, without which the northern
parts of the world could scarce have afforded a very comfortable
habitation, together with the tools of all the different workmen
employed in producing those different conveniences ; if we exam-
ine, I say, all these things, and consider what a variety of labour
is employed about each of them, we shall be sensible that with-
out the assistance and co-operation of many thousands, the
very meanest person in a civilized country could not be pro-
vided, even according to what we very falsely imagine, the easy
and simple manner in which he is commonly accommodated.

(From The Wealth of Nations.}

55

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

"Junius"

AUTHOR OF THE "LETTERS."

1769-1772.

REMARKS ON THE POLITICAL SITUATION.
To THE PRINTER OF THE Public Advertiser.

January 21, 1769.

SIR, — The submission of a free people to the executive authority
of government is no more than a compliance with laws which
they themselves have enacted. While the national honour is
firmly maintained abroad, and while justice is impartially ad-
ministered at home, the obedience of the subject will be volun-
tary, cheerful, and, I might almost say, unlimited. A generous
nation is grateful even for the preservation of its rights, and
willingly extends the respect due to the office of a good prince
into an affection for his person. Loyalty, in the heart and under-
standing of an Englishman, is a rational attachment to the
guardian of the laws. Prejudices and passion have sometimes
carried it to a criminal length, and, whatever foreigners may
imagine, we know that Englishmen have erred as much in a mis-
taken zeal for particular persons and families, as they ever did
in defence of what they thought most dear and interesting to
themselves.

It naturally fills us with resentment to see such a temper in-
sulted and abused. In reading the history of a free people, whose
rights have been invaded, we are interested in their cause. Our
own feelings tell us how long they ought to have submitted,
and at what moment it would have been treachery to themselves
not to have resisted. How much warmer will be our resentment,
if experience should bring the fatal example home to ourselves !

The situation of this country is alarming enough, to rouse the
attention of every man who pretends to a concern for the public
welfare. Appearances justify suspicion ; and when the safety
of a nation is at stake, suspicion is a just ground of enquiry.
Let us enter into it with candour and decency. Respect is due

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EDMUND BURKE

to the station of ministers ; and, if a resolution must at last be
taken, there is none so likely to be supported with firmness as
that which has been adopted with moderation.

The ruin or prosperity of a state depends so much upon the
administration of its government, that, to be acquainted with
the merit of a ministry we need only observe the condition of
the people. If we see them obedient to the laws, prosperous in
their industry, united at home, and respected abroad, we may
reasonably presume that their affairs are conducted by men of
experience, ability and virtue. If on the contrary we see an
universal spirit of distrust and dissatisfaction, a rapid decay of
trade, dissensions in all parts of the empire, and a total loss of
respect in the eyes of foreign powers, we may pronounce, without
hesitation, that the government of that country is weak, distracted
and corrupt. The multitude, in all countries, are patient to a
certain point. Ill-usage may rouse their indignation, and hurry
them into excesses ; but the original fault is in government.
Perhaps there never was an instance of a change in the circum-
stances and temper of a whole nation so sudden and extraordin-
ary as that which the misconduct of ministers has within these
few years, produced in Great Britain.

(From Letters of funius. Letter I.)

Edmund Burke

1729-1797.

ON THE STRENGTH OF EXPRESSION

WE do not sufficiently distinguish in our observations upon
language between a clear expression and a strong expression.
These are frequently confounded with each other, though they
are in reality extremely different. The former regards the
understanding. The latter belongs to the passions. The one
describes a thing as it is ; the latter describes it as it is felt. Now
as there is a moving tone of voice, an impassioned countenance,
an agitated gesture, which affect independently of the things

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about which they are exerted, so there are words, and certain
dispositions of words, which being peculiarly devoted to pas-
sionate subjects, and always used by those who are under the
influence of any passion, touch and move us more than those
which far more clearly and distinctly express the subject matter.
We yield to sympathy what we refuse to description. The
truth is, all verbal description, merely as naked description,
though never so exact, conveys so poor and insufficient an idea
of the thing described that it could scarcely have the smallest
effect, if the speaker did not call in to his aid those modes of
speech that make a strong and lively feeling in himself. Then,
by the contagion of our passions, we catch a fire already kindled
in another, which probably might never have been struck out
by the object described. Words, by strongly conveying the
passions, by those means which we have already mentioned,
fully compensate for their weakness in other respects. It may
be observed, that very polished languages, and such as are praised
for their superior clearness and perspicuity, are generally deficient
in strength. The French language has that perfection and that
defect, whereas the Oriental tongues, and in general the languages
of most unpolished people, have a great force and energy of ex-
pression ; and this is but natural. Uncultivated people are
but ordinary observers of things, and not critical in distinguishing
them ; but, for that reason, they admire more, and are more
affected with what they see, and therefore express themselves
in a warmer and more passionate manner. If the affection be
well conveyed, it will work its effect without any clear idea,
often without any idea at all of the thing which has originally
given rise to it.

(From An Enquiry into the origin of our ideas of the Sublime
and Beautiful.)

A VINDICATION OF HIS ENQUIRY INTO PUBLIC
DISCONTENT (1770)

It is an undertaking of some degree of delicacy to examine
into the cause of public disorders. If a man happens not to

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EDMUND BURKE

succeed in such an enquiry, he will be thought weak and visionary ;
if he touches the true grievance, there is a danger that he may
come near to persons of weight and consequence, who will
rather be . exasperated at the discovery of their errors than
thankful for the occasion of correcting them. If he should be
obliged to blame the favourites of the people, he will be con-
sidered as the tool of power ; if 'he censures those in power, he
will be looked on as an instrument of faction. But in all exertions
of duty something is to be hazarded. In cases of tumult and
disorder, our law has invested every man, in some sort, with the
authority of a magistrate. When the affairs of the nation are
distracted, private people are, by the spirit of the law, justified
in stepping a little out of their ordinary sphere. They enjoy a
privilege, of somewhat more dignity and effect, than that of idle
lamentation over the calamities of their country. They may
look into them narrowly ; they may reason upon them liberally ;
and if they should be so fortunate as to discover the true source
of the mischief, and to suggest any probable method of removing
it, though they may displease the rulers for the day, they are
certainly of service to the cause of government. Government
is deeply interested in everything which, even through the medium
of some temporary uneasiness, may tend finally to compose the
minds of the subjects and to conciliate their affections. I have
nothing to do here with the abstract value of the voice of the
people. But as long as reputation, the most precious possession
of every individual, and as long as opinion, the great support of
the State, depend entirely upon that voice, it can never be con-
sidered as a thing of little consequence either to individuals
or to governments. Nations are not primarily ruled by laws ;
less by violence. Whatever original energy may be supposed
either in force or regulation, the operation of both is, in truth,
merely instrumental. Nations are governed by the same
methods, and on the same principles, by which an individual
without authority is often able to govern those who are his
equals and his superiors ; by a knowledge of their temper, and
by a judicious management of it ; I mean, — when public affairs

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A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

are steadily and quietly conducted : not when government is
nothing but a continued scuffle between the magistrate and the
multitude ; in which sometimes the one and sometimes the other
is uppermost ; in which they alternately yield and prevail, in
a series of contemptible victories and scandalous submissions.
The temper of the people amongst whom he presides ought
therefore to be the first study of a statesman. And the know-
ledge of this temper it is by no means impossible for him to attain
if he has not an interest in being ignorant of what it is his duty
to learn.

To complain of the age we live in, to murmur at the present
possessors of power, to lament the past, to conceive extravagant
hopes of the future, are the common dispositions of the greatest
part of mankind ; indeed the necessary effects of the ignorance
and levity of the vulgar. Such complaints and humours have
existed in all times ; yet as all times have not been alike, true
political sagacity manifests itself in distinguishing that complaint
which only characterises the general infirmity of human nature,
from those which are symptoms of the particular distemperature
of our own air and season.

(From Thoughts on the Causes of the Present Discontents).

THE CHARACTER OF GRENVILLE

Undoubtedly Mr. Grenville was a first-rate figure in this
country. With a masculine understanding, and a stout resolute
heart, he had an application undissipated and unwearied. He
took public business, not as a duty which he was to fulfil, but
as a pleasure he was to enjoy ; and he seemed to have no delight
out of this House, except in such things as some way related to
the business that was to be done within it. If he was ambitious
I will say this for him, his ambition was of a noble and generous
strain. It was to raise himself, not by the low, pimping politics
of a court, but to win his way to power, through the laborious
gradations of public service ; and to secure to himself a well-
earned rank in parliament, by a thorough knowledge of its
constitution, and a perfect practice in all its business.

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EDMUND BURKE

Sir, if such a man fell into errors, it must be from defects not
intrinsical ; they must be rather sought in the particular habits
of his life ; which, though they do not alter the groundwork
of character, yet tinge it with their own hue. He was bred in
a profession. He was bred to the law, which is, in my opinion,
one of the first and noblest of human sciences ; a science which
does more to quicken and invigorate the understanding, than
all the other kinds of learning put together ; but it is not apt,
except in persons very happily born, to open and to liberalize
the mind exactly in the same proportion. Passing from that
study he did not go very largely into the world ; but plunged
into business ; I mean into the business of office ; and the limited
and fixed methods and forms established there. Much knowledge
is to be had undoubtedly in that line ; and there is no knowledge
which is not valuable. But it may be truly said, that men too
much conversant in office are rarely minds of remarkable en-
largement. Their habits of office are apt to give them a turn
to think the substance of business not to be much more important
than the forms in which it is conducted ; and therefore persons
who are nurtured in office do admirably well as long as things
go on in their common order ; but when the high roads are broken
up, and the waters out, when a new and troubled scene is opened,
and the file affords no precedent, then it is that a greater know-
ledge of mankind, and a far more extensive comprehension of
things, is requisite, than ever office gave, or than office can ever
give. Mr. Grenville thought better of the wisdom and power
of human legislation than in truth it deserves.

(From the Speech on American Taxation.)

THE TRUE GROUND OF CONCESSIONS TO AMERICAN

DEMANDS

If we mean to conciliate and concede ; let us see of what
nature the concession ought to be : to ascertain the nature
of our concession, we must look at their complaint. The colonies
complain, that they have not the characteristic mark and seal
of British freedom. They complain that they are taxed in a

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A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

parliament in which they are not represented. If you mean to
satisfy them at all, you must satisfy them with regard to this
complaint. If you mean to please any people, you must give
them the boon which they ask ; not what you think better for
them, but of a kind totally different. Such an act may be a
wise regulation, but it is no concession : whereas our present
theme is the mode of giving satisfaction.

Sir, I think you must perceive, that I am resolved this day
to have nothing at all to do with the question of the right of
taxation. Some gentlemen startle — but it is true ; I put it
totally out of the question. It is less than nothing in my con-
sideration. I do not indeed wonder, nor will you, sir, that
gentlemen of profound learning are fond of displaying it on
this profound subject. But my consideration is narrow, con-
fined, and wholly limited to the policy of the question. I do
not examine, whether the giving away a man's money be a
power excepted and reserved out of the general trust of govern-
ment ; and how far all mankind, in all forms of polity, are
entitled to an exercise of that right by the charter of nature.
Or whether, on the contrary, a right of taxation is necessarily
involved in the general principle of legislation, and inseparable
from the ordinary supreme power. These are deep questions
where great names militate against each other ; where reason
is perplexed ; and an appeal to authorities only thickens the
confusion. For high and reverend authorities lift up their
heads on both sides ; and there is no sure footing in the middle.
This point is the great Serbonian, betwixt Damietta and Mount
Casius old, where armies whole have sunk. I do not intend to
be overwhelmed in that bog, though in such respectable company.
The question with me is, not whether you have a right to render
your people miserable ; but whether it is not your interest to
make them happy. It is not, what a lawyer tells me I may
do ; but what humanity, reason, and justice tell me I ought to
do. Is a politic act the worse for being a generous one ? Is
no concession proper, but that which is made from your want
of right to keep what you grant ? Or does it lessen the grace

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EDMUND BURKE

or dignity of relaxing in the exercise of an odious claim, because
you have your evidence-room full of titles, and your magazines
stuffed with arms to enforce them ? What signify all those
titles, and all those arms ? Of what avail are they, when the
reason of the thing tells me, that the assertion of my title is the
loss of my suit ; and that I could do nothing but wound myself
by the use of my own weapons ?

Such is steadfastly my opinion of the absolute necessity of
keeping up the concord of this empire by a unity of spirit,
though in a diversity of operations, that, if I were sure the
colonists had, at their leaving this country, sealed a regular
compact of servitude ; that they had solemnly abjured all the
rights of citizens ; that they had made a vow to renounce all
ideas of liberty for them and their posterity to all generations ;
yet I should hold myself obliged to conform to the temper I
found universally prevalent in my own day, and to govern
two millions of men, impatient of servitude, on the principles
of freedom. I am not determining a point of law ; I am restoring
tranquillity ; and the general character and situation of a people
must determine what sort of government is fitted for them.
That point nothing else can or ought to determine.

(From the Speech on Conciliation with America.)

BURKE'S FRIENDSHIP WITH LORD KEPPEL

No man lives too long who lives to do with spirit and suffer
with resignation what Providence pleases to command or inflict ;
but indeed they are sharp incommodities which beset old age.
It was but the other day, that, on putting in order some things
which had been brought here on my taking leave of London for
ever, I looked over a number of fine portraits, most 6f them of
persons now dead, but whose society, in my better days, made
this a proud, a happy place. Amongst these was a picture of
Lord Keppel. It was painted by an artist worthy of the subject,
the excellent friend of that excellent man from their earliest
youth, and a common friend of us both, with whom we lived

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for many years without a moment of coldness, of peevishness, of
jealousy, or of jar, to the day of our final separation.

I ever looked on Lord Keppel as one of the greatest and best
men of his age ; and I loved and cultivated him accordingly. He
was much in my heart, and I believe I was in his to the very
last beat. It was after his trial at Portsmouth that he gave me
this picture. With what zeal and anxious affection I attended
him through that his agony of glory, what part my son took in
the early flush and enthusiasm of his virtue, and the pious passion
with which he attached himself to all my connexions, with what
prodigality we both squandered ourselves in courting almost
every sort of enmity for his sake ; I believe he felt, just as I
should have felt such friendship on such an occasion. I partook
indeed of this honour, with several of the first, and best, and
ablest in the kingdom, but I was behindhand with none of them ;
and I am sure, that if to the eternal disgrace of this nation, and
to the total annihilation of every trace of honour and virtue in
it, things had taken a different turn from what they did, I should
have attended him to the quarter-deck with no less good-will
and more pride, though with far other feelings, than I partook
of the general flow of national joy that attended the justice that
was done to his virtue.

Pardon, my Lord, the feeble garrulity of age, which loves to
diffuse itself in discourse of the departed great. At my years
we live in retrospect alone ; and, wholly unfitted for the society
of vigorous life, we enjoy the best balm to all wounds, the con-
solation of friendship, in those only whom we have lost for ever.
Feeling the loss of Lord Keppel at all times, at no time did I
feel it so much as on the first day when I was attacked in the
House of Lords.

(From A Letter to a Noble Lord.)

THE FORTUNE OF STATES

I doubt whether the history of mankind is yet complete enough,
if ever it can be so, to furnish grounds for a sure theory on the
internal causes which necessarily affect the fortune of a state.

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EDMUND BURKE

I am far from denying the operation of such causes : but they
are infinitely uncertain, and much more obscure, and much more
difficult to trace, than the foreign causes that tend to raise, to
depress, and sometimes to overwhelm a community.

It is often impossible, in these political inquiries, to find any
proportion between the apparent force of any moral causes we
may assign and their known operation. We are therefore obliged
to deliver up that operation to mere chance, or, more piously,
(perhaps more rationally), to the occasional interposition and
irresistible hand of the Great Disposer. We have seen states of
considerable duration, which for ages have remained nearly as
they have begun, and could hardly be said to ebb or flow. Some
appear to have spent their vigour at their commencement. Some
have blazed out in their glory a little before their extinction.
The meridian of some has been the most splendid. Others, and
they the greatest number, have fluctuated, and experienced at
different periods of their existence a great variety of fortune.
At the very moment when some of them seemed plunged in
unfathomable abysses of disgrace and disaster, they have suddenly
emerged. They have begun a new course and opened a new
reckoning ; and, even in the depths of their calamity, and on
the very ruins of their country, have laid the foundations of a
towering and durable greatness. All this has happened without
any apparent previous change in the general circumstances which
had brought on their distress. The death of a man at a critical
juncture, his disgust, his retreat, his disgrace, have brought
innumerable calamities on a whole nation. A common soldier,
a child, a girl at the door of an inn, have changed the face of
fortune and almost of nature.

(From Letters on a Regicie Peacde.)

APOLOGY FOR HIS REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH
REVOLUTION

I have told you candidly my sentiments. I think they are not
likely to alter yours. I do not know that they ought. You are
young ; you cannot guide, but must follow the fortune of your

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A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

country. But hereafter they may be of some use to you, in some
future form which your commonwealth may take. In the present
it can hardly remain ; but before its final settlement it may be
obliged to pass, as one of our poets says, " through great varieties
of untried being," and in all its transmigrations to be purified
by fire and blood.

I have little to recommend my opinions but long observation
and much impartiality. They come from one who has been
no tool of power, no flatterer of greatness ; and who in his last
acts does not wish to belie the tenour of his life. They come from
one, almost the whole of whose public exertion has been a struggle
for the liberty of others ; from one in whose breast no anger
durable or vehement has ever been kindled, but by what he con-
sidered as tyranny ; and who snatches from his share in the
endeavours which are used by good men to discredit opulent
oppression, the hours he has employed on your affairs ; and who
in so doing persuades himself he has not departed from his
usual office : they come from one who desires honours, distinc-
tions, and emoluments, but little ; and who expects them not
at all ; who has no contempt for fame and no fear of obloquy ;
who shuns contention, though he will hazard an opinion : from
one who wishes to preserve consistency, but who would preserve
consistency by varying his means to secure the unity of his end ;
and, when the equipoise of the vessel in which he sails may be
endangered by overloading it upon one side, is desirous of carrying
the small weight of his reasons to that which may preserve its
equiposie.

(From Reflections on the Revolution in France.}

ON REFORMATION

At once to preserve and to reform is quite another thing. When
the useful parts of an old establishment are kept, and what is
superadded is to be fitted to what is retained, a vigorous mind,
steady persevering attention, various powers of comparison and
combination, and the resources of an understanding fruitful in
expedients are to be exercised ; they are to be exercised in a

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EDMUND BURKE

continued conflict with the combined force of opposite vices ;
with the obstinacy that rejects all improvement, and the levity
that is fatigued and disgusted with everything of which it is in
possession. But you may object — " A process of this kind is
slow. It is not fit for an assembly which glories in performing
in a few months the work of ages. Such a mode of reforming
possibly might take up many years." Without question it
might ; and it ought. It is one 'of the excellencies of a method
in which time is amongst the assistants, that its operation is
slow, and in some cases almost imperceptible. If circumspection
and caution are a part of wisdom, when we work only upon
inanimate matter, surely they become a part of duty too, when
the subject of our demolition and construction is not brick and
timber, but sentient beings, by the sudden alteration of whose
state, condition, and habits, multitudes may be rendered miser-
able. But it seems as if it were the prevalent opinion in Paris,
that an unfeeling heart, and an undoubting confidence, are the
sole qualifications for a perfect legislator. Far different are
my ideas of that high office. The true lawgiver ought to have
a heart full of sensibility. He ought to love and respect his
kind, and to fear himself. It may be allowed to his tempera-
ment to catch his ultimate object with an intuitive glance ;
but his movements towards it ought to be deliberate. Political
arrangement, as it is a work for social ends, is to be only wrought
by social means. There mind must conspire with mind. Time
is required to produce that union of minds which alone can
produce all the good we aim at. Our patience will achieve
more than our force. If I might venture to appeal to what
is so much out of fashion in Paris, I mean to experience, I
should tell you, that in my course I have known, and, according
to my measure, have co-operated with great men ; and I have
never yet seen any plan which has not been mended by the
observations of those who were much inferior in understanding
to the person who took the lead in the business. By a slow but
well-sustained progress, the effect of each step is watched ; the
good or ill success of the first, gives light to us in the second ;

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and so, from light to light, we are conducted with safety through
the whole series. We see that the parts of the system do not
clash. The evils latent in the most promising contrivances are
provided for as they arise. One advantage is as little as possible
sacrificed to another. We compensate, we reconcile, we balance.
We are enabled to unite into a consistent whole the various
anomalies and contending principles that are found in the
minds and affairs of men. From hence arises, not an excellence
in simplicity, but one far superior, an excellence in composition.
Where the great interests of mankind are concerned through a
long succession of generations, that succession ought to be
admitted into some share in the councils which are so deeply to
affect them. If justice requires this, the work itself requires
the aid of more minds than one age can furnish. It is from this
view of things that the best legislators have been often satisfied
with the establishment of some sure, solid, and ruling principle in
government ; a power like that which some of the philosophers
have called a plastic nature ; and having fixed the principle,
they have left it afterwards to its own operation.

(From The Same.}

Thomas Gray

1716-1771.

BORROWDALE

OCTOBER 3. — A heavenly day ; rose at seven, and walked out
under the conduct of my landlord to Borrowdale ; the grass
was covered with a hoarfrost, which soon melted and exhaled
in a thin bluish smoke ; crossed the meadows obliquely, catching
a diversity of views among the hills, over the lake and islands
and changing prospect at every ten paces. Left Cockshut
(which we formerly mounted) and Castlehill, a loftier and more
rugged hill behind me, and drew near the foot of Wallow-crag,
whose bare and rocky brow ; cut perpendicularly down above
400 feet (as I guess, though the people call it much more), awfully
overlooks the waj. Our path here tends to the left, and the

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ground gently rising, and covered with a glade of scattered
trees and rushes on the very margin of the water, opens both
ways the most delicious view that my eyes ever beheld. Opposite
are the thick woods of Lord Egremont, and Newland valley,
with green and smiling fields embosomed in the dark cliffs ;
to the left, the jaws of Borrowdale, with that turbulent chaos
of mountain behind mountain, rolled in confusion, beneath you,
and stretching far away to the right, the shining purity of the
lake reflecting rocks, woods, fields, and inverted tops of hills,
just ruffled by the breeze, enough to show it is alive, with the
white buildings of Keswick, Crosthwaite church, and Skiddaw,
for a background at a distance.

(From Letters.)

THE LAKE

In the evening I walked alone down to the lake, by the side
of Crow-park, after sunset, and saw the solemn colouring of
the night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on
the hill tops, the deep serene of the waters, and the long shadows
of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched
the hithermost shore. At a distance were heard the murmurs
of many water-falls, not audible in the daytime ; I wished for
the moon, but she was dark to me and silent,
Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

FROM KESWICK TO RYDAL

October 8. — I left Keswick, and took the Ambleside road, in
a gloomy morning : about two miles (rather a mile) from the
town, mounted an eminence called Castle-rigg, and the sun
breaking out discovered the most enchanting view I have yet
seen of the whole valley behind me, the two lakes, the river,
the mountains, all in their glory ; so that I had almost a mind
to have gone back again. The road in some few parts is not
completed, yet good country road, through sound but narrow
and stony lanes, very safe in broad daylight. This is the case

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about Causeway-foot, and among Naddle-fells, to Langthwaite.
The vale you go in has little breadth ; the mountains are vast
and rocky, the fields little and poor, and the inhabitants are
now making hay, and see not the sun by two hours in the day
so long as at Keswick. Came to the foot of Helvellyn, along
which runs an excellent road, looking down from a little height
on Leathes-water (called also Thirhnere, or Wythburn- water),
and soon descending on its margin. The lake looks black from
its depth, and from the gloom of the vast crags that scowl over
it, though really clear as glass : it is narrow, and about three
miles long, resembling a river in its course ; little shining torrents
hurrying down the rocks to join it, but not a bush to over-
shadow them, or cover their march ; all is rock and loose stones
up to the very brow, which lies so near your way that not above
half the height of Helvellyn can be seen.

Next I passed by the little chapel of Wythburn, out of which
the Sunday congregation were then issuing : soon after a
beck near Dunmail-raise, where I entered Westmoreland a
second time ; and now began to see Helmcrag, distinguished
from its rugged neighbours, not so much by its height as by the
strange broken outlines of its top, like some gigantic building
demolished, and the stones that composed it flung across each
other in wild confusion. Just beyond it opens one of the
sweetest landscapes that art ever attempted to imitate. The
bosom of the mountains spreading here into a broad basin,
discovers in the midst Grassmere-water : its margin is hollowed
into small bays with bold eminences ; some of rock, some of
turf, that half -conceal and vary the figure of the little lake they
command ; from the shore a low promontory pushes itself far
into the water, and on it stands a white village, with the parish
church rising in the midst of it ; hanging inclosures, corn fields
and meadows, green as an emerald, with their trees and hedges
and cattle, fill up the whole space from the edge of the water ;
and just opposite to you is a large farm house, at the bottom
of a deep smooth lawn, embosomed in old woods, which climb
half way up the mountain sides, and discover above them a

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broken line of crags that crown the scene. Not a single red
tile, no gentleman's flaring house, or garden walls, break in upon
the repose of this little unsuspected paradise ; but all is peace,
rusticity and happy poverty, in its neatest most becoming attire.
The road here winds over Grassmere hill, whose rocks soon
conceal the water from your sight ; yet it is continued along
behind them, and contracting itself to a river, communicates
with Rydal-water, another small lake, but of inferior size
and beauty : it seems shallow too, for large patches of reeds
appear pretty far within. Into this vale the road descends.
On the opposite bank large and ancient woods mount up the
hill ; and just to the left of our way stands Rydall-hall, the
family seat of Sir Michael le Fleming, a large old fashioned fabric,
rounded with wood. Sir Michael is now on his travels, and all
this timber far and wide belongs to him. Near the house rises
a huge crag, called Rydal-head, which is said to command a
full view of Windermere, and I doubt it not ; for within a mile,
that lake is visible even from the road : as to going up the crag,
one might as well go up Skiddaw.

(From The Same.)

William Cowper

1731-1800.

ON GROWING OLDER

IT costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my friends
who were already grown old when I saw them last, are old
still ; but it costs me a good deal sometimes to think of those
who were at that time young, as being older than they were.
Not having been an eye-witness of the change that time has
made in them, and my former idea of them not being cor-
rected by observation, it remains the same ; my memory
presents me with this image unimpaired, and while it retains
the resemblance of what they were, forgets that by this time
the picture may have lost much of its likeness, through the

71

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

alteration that succeeding years have made in the original.
I know not what impressions Tune may have made upon your
person, for while his claws, (as our grannams called them)
strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to sheath them
with much tenderness, as if fearful of doing injury, to others.
But though an enemy to the person, he is a friend to the mind,
and you have found him so. Though even in this respect
his treatment of us depends upon what he meets with at our
hands ; if we use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he
is a friend indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, who
takes from us daily something that we valued, and gives us
nothing better in its stead. It is well with them who, like you,
can stand a tiptoe on the mountain top of human life, look
down with pleasure upon the valley they have passed, and
sometimes stretch their wings in joyful hope of a happy night
into eternity. Yet a little while, and your hope will be accom-
plished.

(From a Letter to Mrs. Cowper.)

TWO GOLDFINCHES

I have two goldfinches, which in the summer occupy the green-
house. A few days since, being employed in cleaning out their
cages, I placed that which I had in hand upon the table,
while the other hung against the wall : the windows and the
doors stood wide open. I went to fill the fountain at the pump,
and on my return was not a little surprised to find a goldfinch
sitting on the top of the cage I had been cleaning, and singing
to and kissing the goldfinch within. I approached him and
he discovered no fear ; still nearer, and he discovered none.
I advanced my hand towards him, and he took no notice
of it. I seized him, and supposed I had caught a new bird,
but casting my eye upon the other cage perceived my mis-
take. Its inhabitant, during my absence, had contrived to
find an opening, where the wire had been a little bent, and
made no other use of the escape it afforded him, than to salute
his friend, and to converse with him more intimately than he

72

WILLIAM COWPER

had done before. I returned him to his proper mansion, but in
vain. In less than a minute he had thrust his little person
through the aperture again, and again perched upon his neigh-
bour's cage, kissing him, as at the first, and singing, as if trans-
ported with the fortunate adventure. I could not but respect
such friendship, as for the sake of its gratification had twice
declined an opportunity to be free, and, consenting to their
union, resolved that for the future one cage should hold them
both. I am glad of such incidents ; for at a pinch, and when
I need entertainment, the versification of them serves to divert
me.

(From a Letter to the Rev, W . Unwin.)

A CHARACTER

MY DEAR WILLIAM, — Our severest winter, commonly called the
spring, is now over, and I find myself seated in my favourite
recess, the greenhouse. In such a situation, so silent, so shady,
where no human foot is heard, and where only my myrtles
presume to peep in at the window, you may suppose I have no
interruption to complain of, and that my thoughts are per-
fectly at my command. But the beauties of the spot are them-
selves an interruption, my attention being called upon by those
very myrtles, by a double row of grass pinks just beginning to
blossom, and by a bed of beans already in bloom ; and you
are to consider it, if you please, as no small proof of my regard,
that though you have so many powerful rivals, I disengage
myself from them all, and devote this hour entirely to you.

You are not acquainted with the Rev. Mr. Bull, of Newport ;
perhaps it is as well for you that you are not. You would
regret still more than you do that there are so many miles
interposed between us. He spends part of the day with us to-
morrow. A Dissenter, but a liberal one ; a man of genius ;
master of a fine imagination, or rather not master of it — an
imagination which, when he finds himself in the company he
loves, and can confide in, runs away with him into such fields
of speculation as amuse and enliven every other imagination

73

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

that has the happiness to be of the party ! At other times he
has a tender and delicate sort of melancholy in his disposition,
not less agreeable in its way. No men are better qualified for
companions in such a world as this than men of such a tem-
perament. Every scene of life has two sides, a dark and a
bright one, and the mind that has an equal mixture of
melancholy and vivacity is best of all qualified for the
contemplation of either. He can be lively without levity
and pensive without dejection. Such a man is Mr. Bull. But
—he smokes tobacco — nothing is perfect.

Nihil est ab omni
Parte beatum.

(From The Same.)

James Thomson

1700-1748.

A MOUNTAIN WATERFALL IN SUMMER

THUS up the mount, in aery vision rapt,

I stray, regardless whither ; till the sound

Of a near fall of water every sense

Wakes from the charm of thought : swift shrinking back,

I check my steps, and view the broken scene.

Smooth to the shelving brink a copious flood

Rolls fair and placid ; where collected all,

In one impetuous torrent, down the steep

It thundering shoots, and shakes the country round.

At first, an azure sheet, it rushes broad ;

Then whitening by degrees, as prone it falls,

And from the loud-resounding rocks below

Dashed in a cloud of foam, it sends aloft

A hoary mist, and forms a ceaseless shower.

Nor can the tortured wave here find repose :

But, raging still amid the shaggy rocks,

Now flashes o'er the scattered fragments, now

74

JAMES THOMSON

Aslant the hollow channel darts ;
And, falling fast from gradual slope to slope,
With wild infracted course, and lessened roar,
It gains a safer bed, and steals, at last,
Along the mazes of the quiet vale.

Invited from the cliff, to whose dark brow
He clings, the steep ascending eagle soars,
With upward pinions through the flood of day ;
And, giving full his bosom to the blaze,
Gains on the sun, while all the tuneful race,
Smit by afflictive noon, disordered droop,
Deep in the thicket ; or, from bower to bower
Responsive, force an interrupted strain.
The stock-dove only through the forest cooes,
Mournfully hoarse ; oft ceasing from his plaint,
Short interval of weary woe ! again
The sad idea of his murdered mate,
Struck from his side by savage fowler's guile,
Across his fancy comes ; and then resounds
A louder song of sorrow through the grove.

Beside the dewy border let me sit,
All in the freshness of the humid air ;
There in that hollowed rock, grotesque and wild,
An ample chair moss-lined, and over head
By flowering umbrage shaded : where the bee
Strays diligent, and with the extracted embalm
Of fragrant woodbine loads his little thigh.

(From The Seasons : Summer.)

HUNTING THE HARE

Poor is the triumph o'er the timid hare !
Scared from the corn, and now to some lone seat
Retired : the rushy fen ; the ragged furze,
Stretched o'er the stony heath ; the stubble chapt ;
The thistly lawn ; the thick entangled broom ;
Of the same friendly hue, the withered fern ;

75

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The fallow ground laid open to the sun,
Concoctive ; and the nodding sandy bank,
Hung o'er the mazes of the mountain brook ;
Vain is her best precaution ; though she sits
Concealed with folded ears ; unsleeping eyes,
By Nature raised to take the horizon in ;
And head couched close betwixt her hairy feet,
In act to spring away. The scented dew
Betrays her early labyrinth ; and deep,
In scattered sullen openings, far behind,
With every breeze she hears the coming storm,
But nearer, and more frequent, as it loads
The sighing gale, she springs amazed, and all
The savage soul of game is up at once :
The pack full-opening, various ; the shrill horn
Resounded from the hills ; the neighing steed,
Wild for the chase : and the loud hunter's shout ;
O'er a weak, harmless, flying creature, all
Mixed in mad tumult and discordant joy.

(From The Seasons : Autumn.)

THE MIGRATION OF BIRDS

When Autumn scatters his departing gleams,
Warned of approaching winter, gathered, play
The swallow-people ; and tossed wide around,
O'er the calm sky, in convolution swift,
The feathered eddy floats ; rejoicing once,
Ere to their wintry slumbers they retire ;
In clusters hung, beneath the mouldering bank.
And where, unpierced by frost, the cavern sweats,
Or rather into warmer climes conveyed,
With other kindred birds of season, there
They twitter cheerful, till the vernal months
Invite them welcome back ; for, thronging, now
Innumerous wings are in commotion all.
Where the Rhine loses his majestic force

76

JAMES THOMSON

In Belgian plains, won from the raging deep,
By diligence amazing, and the strong
Unconquerable hand of Liberty,
The stork-assembly meets ; for many a day,
Consulting deep, and various, ere they take
Their arduous voyage through the liquid sky.
And now their route designed, their leaders chose,
Their tribes adjusted, cleaned their vigorous wings;
And many a circle, many a short assay,
Wheeled round and round, in congregation full,
The figured flight ascends ; and riding high
Th' aerial billows, mixes with the clouds.

Or where the Northern Ocean, in vast whirls,
Boils round the naked melancholy isles
Of farthest Thule, and the Atlantic surge
Pours in among the stormy Hebrides ;
Who can recount what transmigrations there
Are annual made ? What nations come and go ?
And how the living clouds on clouds arise ?
Infinite wings ! till all the plume-dark air
And rude resounding shore are one wild cry.

(From The Seasons: Autumn.}

TEMPEST IN WINTER

Then comes the father of the tempest forth,
Wrapt in black glooms. First joyless rains obscure
Drive through the mingling skies with vapour foul ;
Dash on the mountains brow, and shake the woods,
That grumbling wave below. Th' unsightly plain
Lies a brown deluge ; as the low-bent clouds
Pour flood on flood, yet unexhausted still
Combine, and deepening into night shut up
The day's fair face. The wanderers of Heaven,
Each to his home, retire ; save those that love
To take their pastime in the troubled air,
Or skimming flutter round the dimply pool.

77

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The cattle from th' untasted fields return,

And ask, with meaning lowe, their wonted stalls,

Or ruminate in the contiguous shade.

Thither the household feathery people crowd,

The crested cock, with all his female train,

Pensive and dripping ; while the cottage hind

Hangs o'er the enlivening blaze, and taleful there

Recounts his simple frolic ; much he talks,

And much he laughs, nor recks the storm that blows

Without, and rattles on his humble roof.

(From The Seasons : Winter.}

PILGRIMS IN THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

A pleasing land of drowsyhead it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye ;
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer-sky :
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly,
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hovered nigh ;
But whate'er smacked of 'noyance, or unrest,
Was far, far off expelled from this delicious nest.

The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)
Close-hid his castle mid embowering trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of checkered day and night ;
Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate,
Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight
Was placed ; and to his lute, of cruel fate,
And labour harsh, complained, lamenting man's estate.

Thither continual pilgrims, crowded still,
From all the roads of earth that pass thereby :
For as they chanced to breathe on neighbouring hill,

78

JAMES THOMSON

The freshness of this valley smote their eye,
And drew them ever and anon more nigh ;
Till clustering round the enchanter false they hung,
Ymolten with his siren melody ;
While o'er the enfeebling flute his hand he flung,
And to the trembling chords these tempting verses sung

" Behold, ye pilgrims of this earth, behold !
See all but man with unearned pleasure gay ;
See her bright robes the butterfly unfold,
Broke from her wintery tomb in prime of May !
What youthful bride can equal her array ?
Who can with her for easy pleasure vie ?
From mead to mead with gentle wing to stray,
From flower to flower on balmy gales to fly,
In all she has to do beneath the radiant sky.

" Come ye, who still the cumbrous load of life
Push hard up hill ; but as the furthest steep
You trust to gain, and put an end to strife,
Down thunders back the stone with mighty sweep,
And hurls your labours to the valley deep,
For ever vain : come, and withouten fee,
I in oblivion will your sorrows steep,
Your cares, your toils ; will steep you in a sea
Of full delight : O come, ye weary wights, to me ! "

He ceased. But still their trembling ears retained
The deep vibrations of his witching song ;
That, by a kind of magic power, constrained
To enter in, pell-mell, the listening throng,
Heaps poured on heaps, and yet they slipt along,
In silent ease : as when beneath the beam
Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
Or by some flood all silvered with the gleam,
The soft-embodied Fays through airy portal stream :

79

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Waked by the crowd, slow from his bench arose
A comely full-spread porter, swoln with sleep :
His calm, broad, thoughtless aspect, breathed repose ;
And in sweet torpour he was plunged deep,
Nor could himself from ceaseless yawning keep ;
While o'er his eyes the drowsy liquor ran,
Through which his half-waked soul would faintly peep.
Then, taking his black staff, he called his man,
And roused himself as much as rouse himself he can,

Meantime the master-porter wide displayed
Great store of caps, of slippers and of gowns ;
Wherewith he those that entered in, arrayed
Loose, as the breeze that plays along the downs,
And waves the summer-woods when evening frowns,
O fair undress, best dress ! it checks no vein,
But every flowing limb in pleasure drowns,
And heightens ease with grace. This done, right fain,
Sir porter sat him down, and turned to sleep again.

Thus easy robed, they to the fountain sped,
That in the middle of the court upthrew
A stream, high spouting from its liquid bed,
And falling back again in drizzly dew :
There each deep draughts, as deep he thirsted drew.
It was a fountain of Nepenthe rare :
Whence, as Dan Homer sings, huge pleasaunce drew,
And sweet oblivion of vile earthly care ;
Fair gladsome waking thoughts, and joyous dreams more fair.

This rite performed, all inly pleased and still,
Withouten tromp, was proclamation made.
" Ye sons of Indolence, do what you will ;
And wander where you list, thro' hall or glade !
Be no man's pleasure for another staid ;
Let each as likes him best his hours employ,

80

SAMUEL JOHNSON

And cursed be he who minds his neighbour's trade !
Here dwells kind Ease and unreproving Joy :
He little merits bliss who others can annoy.

(From The Castle of Indolence.}

Samuel Johnson

1709-1784.

POVERTY IN LONDON

BY numbers here from shame or censure free,

All crimes are safe but hated poverty.

This, only this, the rigid law pursues,

This, only this, provokes the snarling muse.

The sober trader at a tattered cloak

Wakes from his dream and labours for a joke ;

With brisker air the silken courtiers gaze,

Arid turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.

Of all the griefs that harass the distressed,

Sure the most bitter is a scornful jest ;

Fate never wounds more deep the generous heart,

Than when a blockhead's insult points the dart.

Has heaven reserved, in pity to the poor,
No pathless waste or undiscovered shore ?
No secret island in the boundless main ?
No peaceful desert, yet unclaimed by Spain ?
Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore,
And bear oppression's insolence no more.
This mournful truth is everywhere confessed,

" SLOW RISES WORTH BY POVERTY DEPRESSED ! "

But here more slow, where all are slaves to gold,
Where looks are merchandise, and smiles are sold ;
Wrhere won by bribes, by flatteries implored,
The groom retails the favours of his lord.

(From London.)
VOL. vi. 81 G

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE SCHOLAR'S LIFE

When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame ;
Through all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown ;
O'er Bodley's dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon's mansion trembles o'er his head.
Are these thy views ? Proceed, illustrious youth,
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth !
Yet, should thy soul indulge the generous heat
Till captive science yields her last retreat ;
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty doubt resistless day ;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright ;
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain ;
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart ;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade ;
Yet hope not life, from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee :
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause awhile from letters, to be wise ;
There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol.
See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Hear Lydiat's life, and Galileo's end,
Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows,
The glittering eminence exempt from woes.

(From The Vanity of Human Wishes.")

82

ROBERT BLAIR

THE CONSOLATION FOR THE VANITY OF HUMAN LIFE

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find ?

Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind ?

Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,

Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate ?

Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ?

Inquirer, cease ; petitions yet remain

Which heaven may hear ; nor deem religion vain.

Still raise for God the supplicating voice,

But leave to heaven the measure and the choice.

Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar.

The secret ambush of a specious prayer ;

Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best.

Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,

And strong devotion to the skies aspires,

Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,

Obedient passions, and a will resigned ;

For love, which scarce collective man can fill ;

For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill ;

For faith, that panting for a happier seat,

Counts death kind nature's signal of retreat.

These goods for man the laws of heaven ordain ;

These goods he grants, who grants the power to gain ;

With these celestial wisdom calms the mind,

And makes the happiness she does not find.

(From The Same.)

Robert Blair

1699-1746.

THE GRAVE

WHILE some affect the sun and some the shade
Some flee the city, some the hermitage ;

83

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Their aims as various as the roads they take
In journeying through life ; — the task be mine,
To paint the gloomy horrors of the tomb ;
Th' appointed place of rendezvous, where all
These travellers meet.

Oft in the lone churchyard at night I've seen,

By glimpse of moonlight chequering through the trees,

The school boy, with his satchel in his hand,

Whistling aloud to bear his courage up ;

And lightly tripping o'er the long flat stones,

(With nettles skirted, and with moss o'ergrown),

That tell in homely phrase who lie below.

Sudden he starts, and hears, or thinks he hears,

The sound of something purring at his heels ;

Full fast he flies, and dares not look behind him,

Till out of breath, he overtakes his fellows,

Who gather round and wonder at the tale

Of horrid apparition tall and ghastly,

That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand

O'er some new opened grave ; and (strange to tell !)

Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

Dull Grave ! — thou spoil'st the dance of youthful blood,
Strik'st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,
And every smirking feature from the face ;
Branding our laughter with the name of madness.
Where are the jesters now ? The men of health,
Complectionally pleasant ? Where's the droll,
Whose every look and gesture was a joke
To clapping theatres and shouting crowds,
And made even thick-lipped musing melancholy
To gather up her face into a smile
Before she was aware ? Ah ! sullen now,
And dumb as the green turf that covers them.

(From The Grave.}
84

ROBERT BLAIR

DEATH AND HEREAFTER

If death were nothing, and nought after death ;

If when men died, at once they ceased to be,

Returning to the barren womb of nothing,

Whence first they sprung, then might the debauchee

Untrembling mouth the Heavens : then might the drunkard

Reel over his full bowl, and, when 'tis drained,

Fill up another to the brim, and laugh

At the poor bugbear Death : then might the wretch

That's weary of the world, and tired of life,

At once give each inquietude the slip,

By stealing out of being when he pleased,

And by what way, whether by hemp or steel.

Death's thousand doors stand open. Who could force

The ill-pleased guest to sit out his full time,

Or blame him if he goes ? — Sure he does well,

That helps himself as timely as he can,

When able. — But if there is an hereafter,

And that there is, conscience, uninfluenced,

And suffered to speak out, tells every man,

Then must it be an awful thing to die.

(From The Same.}

DEATH THE GLUTTON

O great man-eater !

Whose every day is carnival, not sated yet !
Unheard of epicure ! without a fellow !
The veriest gluttons do not always cram ;
Some intervals of abstinence are sought
To edge the appetite : thou seekest none.
Methinks the countless swarms thou hast devoured,
And thousands at each hour thou gobblest up,
This, less than this, might gorge thee to the full ;
But, ah ! rapacious still, thou gap'st for more :
Like one whole days defrauded of his meals.

85

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

On whom lank Hunger lays her skinny hand,
And whets to keenest eagerness his cravings ;
As if diseases, massacres, and poison,
Famine, and war, were not thy caterers.

(From The Same.}

Edward Young

1681-1765.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE

SELF-FLATTERED, unexperienced, high in hope,
When young, with sanguine cheer and streamers gay,
We cut our cable, launch into the world,
And fondly dream each wind and star our friend ;
All in some darling enterprise embarked :
But where is he can fathom its extent ?
Amid a multitude of artless hands,
Ruin's sure perquisite ! her lawful prize !
Some steer aright ; but the black blast blows hard,
And puffs them wide of hope : with hearts of proof
Full against wind and tide, some win their way ;
And when strong effort has deserved the port,
And tugged it into view, 'tis won ! 'tis lost !
Though strong their oar, still stronger is their fate :
They strike ; and while they triumph, they expire.
In stress of weather, most ; some, sink outright ;
O'er them, and o'er their names, the billows close ;
To-morrow knows not they were ever born.
Others a short memorial leave behind,
Like a flag floating, when the bark's ingulfed ;
It floats a moment and is seen no more :
One Caesar lives ; a thousand are forgot.
How few, beneath auspicious planets born,
(Darlings of Providence ! fond Fate's elect !)
With swelling sails make good the promised port,

86

EDWARD YOUNG

With all their wishes freighted ! yet e'en these,

Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain ;

Free from misfortune, not from nature free,

They still are men ; and when is man secure ?

As fatal time as storm ! the rush of years

Beats down their strength ; their numberless escapes

In ruin end ; and, now, their proud success

But plants new terrors in the victor's brow :

What pain to quit the world, just made their own !

Their nest so deeply drowned, and built so high !

Too low they build who build beneath the stars.

(From Night Thoughts.)

THE LANGUID LADY

The languid lady next appears in state,
Who was not born to carry her own weight ;
She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid
To her own stature lifts the feeble maid.
Then, if ordained to so severe a doom,
She, by just stages, journeys round the room :
But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs
To scale the Alps — that is, ascend the stairs.
My fan ! let others say, who laugh at toil ;
Fan ! hood ! glove ! scarf ! is her laconic style ;
And that is spoke with such a dying fall,
That Betty rather sees, than hears the call :
The motion of her lips, and meaning eye,
Price out th' idea her faint words deny.
O listen with attention most profound !
Her voice is but the shadow of a sound.
And help ! O help ! her spirits are so dead,
One hand scarce lifts the other to her head.
If, there, a stubborn pin it triumphs o'er,
She pants ! she sinks away ! and is no more.

(From Love of Fame, the Universal Passion.)
87

A TREASURY OF' ENGLISH LITERATURE

Charles Churchill

1731-1764.

PRIVILEGE

OUR times, more polished, wear a different face ;

Debts are an honour, payment a disgrace.

Men of weak minds high placed in folly's list,

May gravely tell us trade cannot subsist,

Nor all those thousands who' re in trade employed,

If faith 'twixt man and man is once destroyed.

Why — be it so, — we in that point accord ;

But what is trade and tradesman to a lord ?

Faber from day to day, from year to year,

Hath had the cries of tradesmen in his ear :

Of tradesmen by his villany betrayed,

And vainly seeking justice, bankrupts made.

What is't to Faber ? lordly as before

He sits at ease and lives to ruin more :

Fixed at his door, as motionless as stone,

Begging, but only begging for their own ;

Unheard they stand, or only heard by those,

Those slaves in livery, who mock their woes.

What is't to Faber ? he continues great,

Lives on in grandeur and runs out in state.

The helpless widow, wrung with deep despair,

In bitterness of soul pours forth her prayer,

Hugging her starving babes with streaming eyes,

And calls down vengeance, vengeance from the skies.

What is't to Faber ? he stands safe and clear,

Heaven can commence no legal action here,

And on his breast a mighty plate he wears,

A plate more firm than triple brass, which bears

The name of Privilege, 'gainst vulgar awe ;

He feels no conscience, and he fears no law.

(From The Times.)

88

'

CHARLES CHURCHILL

ON LETTERS IN ENGLAND

He1 talked of ancients, as the man became

Who prized our own, but envied not their fame ;

With noble reverence spoke of Greece and Rome,

And scorned to tear the laurel from the tomb.

" But more than just to other countries grown,

Must we turn base apostates to our own ?

Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel,'

That England may not please the ear as well ?

What mighty magic's in the place or air,

That all perfection needs must centre there ?

In states, let strangers blindly be preferred ;

In state of letters, merit should be heard.

Genius is of no country, her pure ray

Spreads all abroad, as general as the day ;

Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies,

And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise.

May not (to give a pleasing fancy scope

And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope)

May not some great extensive genius raise

The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise ;

And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms,

Make England great in letters as in arms ?

There may — there hath — and Shakespeare's muse aspires

Beyond the reach of Greece : with native fires

Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight,

Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height.

" Why should we then abroad for judges roam,
When abler judges we may find at home ?
Happy in tragic and in comic powers,
Have we not Shakespeare ? — Is not Jonson ours ? "

(From The Rosciad.)

1 The poet Lloyd, who is represented in The Rosciad as arguing
against those critics who "blind obedience pay to ancient schools."

89

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Mark Akenside

1721-1770

TRUTH SEEN THROUGH IMAGINATION

FOR of all

The inhabitants of Earth, to man alone
Creative wisdom gave to lift his eye
To Truth's eternal measures ; thence to frame
The sacred laws of action and of will,
Discerning justice from unequal deeds,
And temperance from folly. But beyond
This energy of Truth, whose dictates bind
Assenting reason, the benignant sire,
To deck the honoured paths of just and good,
Has added bright Imagination's rays :
Where Virtue, rising from the awful depth
Of Truth's mysterious bosom, doth forsake
The unadorned condition of her birth ;
And, dressed by Fancy in ten thousand hues,
Assumes a various feature, to attract,
With charms responsive to each gazer's eye,
The hearts of men. Amid his rural walk,
The ingenious youth, whom solitude inspires
With purest wishes, from the pensive shade
Beholds her moving, like a virgin-muse
That wakes her lyre to some indulgent theme
Of harmony and wonder : while among
The herd of servile minds her strenuous form
Indignant flashes on the patriot's eye,
And through the rolls of memory appeals
To ancient honour, or, in act serene,
Yet watchful, raises the majestic sword
Of public power, from dark ambition's reach
To guard the sacred volume of the laws.

(From The Pleasures of Imagination.)

90

MARK AKENSIDE

THE PLEASURE OF THE IMAGINATIVE MAN

What though not all

Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life ; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state ;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him, the hand
Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings ;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only : for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious : wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspired delight : her tempered powers

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.

(From The Pleasures of Imagination.)

THE INFLUENCE OF A PATRIOT

Then Curio rose to ward the public woe,
To wake the heedless, and incite the slow,
Against corruption Liberty to arm,
And quell the enchantress by a mightier charm.
Swift o'er the land the fair contagion flew,
And with the country's hopes thy honours grew.
Thee, patriot, the patrician roof confessed ;
Thy powerful voice the rescued merchant blessed ;
Of thee with awe the rural hearth resounds ;
The bowl to thee the grateful sailor crowns ;
Touched in the sighing shade with manlier fires,
To trace thy steps the love-sick youth aspires ;
The learn' d recluse, who oft amazed had read
Of Grecian heroes, Roman patriots dead,
With new amazement hears a living name
Pretend to share in such forgotten fame ;
And he who scorning courts and courtly ways,
Left the tame track of these dejected days,
The life of nobler ages to renew
In virtues sacred from a monarch's view,
Roused by thy labours from the blest retreat
Where social ease and public passions meet,
Again ascending treads the civil scene,
To act and be a man, as thou hadst been.

(From An Epistle to Curio.)

92

WILLIAM COLLINS

William Collins

1721-1759.

ODE TO EVENING

IF aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,

May hope, chaste eve, to soothe thy modest ear,

Like thy own solemn springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,

O nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed :

Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat
With short, shrill shriek, flits by on leathern wing ;

Or where the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,

As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum :

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,

Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,
May, not unseemly, with its stillness suit,

As, musing slow, I hail

Thy genial loved return !

For when thy folding star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant hours, and elves

Who slept in flowers the day,

And many a nymph who wreathes her brow with sedge
And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures sweet

Prepare thy shadowy car :
93

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Then lead, calm votaress, where some sheety lake
Cheers the lone heath, or some time-hallowed pile,

Or upland fallows grey,

Reflect its last cool gleam.

But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,
Forbid my willing feet, be mine the hut,

That from the mountain's side,

Views wilds, and swelling floods,

And hamlets brown, and dim- discovered spires ;
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.

While spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest eve,

While summer loves to sport

Beneath thy lingering light ;

While sallow autumn fills thy lap with leaves ;
Or winter, yelling through the troublous air,

Affrights thy shrinking train,

And rudely rends thy robes ;

So long, sure found beneath the sylvan shed,
Shall fancy, friendship, science, rose-lipped health,

Thy gentlest influence own,

And hymn thy favourite name.

AN ODE

ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOT-
LAND CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY. INSCRIBED
TO MR. JOHN HOME.

There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill ;

'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st fhy feet ;

Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet,
Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill.

94

WILLIAM COLLINS

There each trim lass, that skims the milky store

To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls allots ;
By night they sip it round the cottage-door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.
There every herd by sad experience knows

How winged with fate their elf -shot arrows fly,
When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes

Or stretched on earth the heart-sunk heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe th' untutored swain :

Nor thou, though learn' d, his homelier thoughts neglect ;
Let thy sweet muse the rural faith sustain ;

These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,

And fill with double force her heart-commanding strain.

Unbounded is thy range ; with varied skill

Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which spring

From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wind
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,

To that hoar pile which still its ruin shows :
In whose small vaults a Pigmy-folk is found,

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows,
And culls them, wondering, from the hallowed ground !
Or thither, where beneath the showery west

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid :
Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade :
Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold,
And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power,

In pageant robes, and wreathed with sheeny gold,
And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

Nor needest thou blush that such false themes
Thy gentle mind of fairer stores possest ;
For not alone they touch the village breast,

95

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

But filled in elder time th' historic page.

There Shakespeare's self, with every garland crowned
Flew to these fairy climes his fancy sheen,

In musing hour ; his wayward sisters found,
And with their terrors dressed the magic scene.

From them he sung, when, mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast,

The shadowy Kings of Banquo's fated line
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant passed.

Proceed, nor quit the tales which simply told
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce ;

Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colour bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse ;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

All hail, ye scenes, that o'er my soul prevail !

Ye splendid friths and lakes which, far away,

Are by smooth Anan filled or pastoral Tay,
Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail !
The time shall come when I, perhaps, may tread

Your lowly glens o'erhung with spreading broom,
Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led ;

Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom.
Then will I dress once more the faded bower,

Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade,
Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower.

And mourn on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid.
Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore

The cordial youth,1 on Lothian's plains, attend ;
Where'er Home dwells, on hill or lowly moor,

To him I love, your kind protection lend,
And touched with love like mine, preserve my absent friend.

1 The friend who introduced Home to Collins.
96

THOMAS GRAY

Thomas Gray

1716-1771.

TO ADVERSITY

DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless Power,

Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort' ring hour

The bad affright, afflict the best !
Bound in thine adamantine chain
The proud are taught to taste of pain,
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly birth,

And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged Nurse ! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore :
What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know,
And from her own she learn' d to melt at others' woe.

Scared at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse, and with them go
The summer friend, the flatt'ring foe ;
By vain Prosperity received,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd,

Immersed in rapt'rous thought profound,
And Melancholy, silent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,
VOL. vi. 97 H

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Still on thy solemn steps attend :

Warm Charity, the general friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,

And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head,

Dread goddess, lay thy chast'ning hand !
Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band,
(As by the impious thou art seen)
With thund'ring voice, and threat'ning mien,
With screaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh Goddess, wear,

Thy milder influence impart,
Thy philosophic train be there

To soften, not to wound my heart.
The generous spark extinct revive,
Teach me to love and to forgive,
Exact my own defects to scan,
What others are to feel, and know myself a man.

SHAKESPEARE, MILTON AND DRYDEN

Far from the sun and summer-gale
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,

To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face : the dauntless child
Stretched forth his little arms and smiled.
" This pencil take (she said), whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year ;
Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy !
This can unlock the gates of joy,
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

98

WILLIAM SHENSTONE

Nor second He, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy,
The secrets of the abyss to spy.

He passed the flaming bounds of place and time :
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble while they gaze,
He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of glory bear
Two coursers of ethereal race,

With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.

(From The Progress of Poesy.)

William Shenstone

1714-1763.

THE SCHOOL-MISTRESS

A RUSSET stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ;
A russet kirtle fenced the nipping air ;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own ;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair !
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare ;
And, sooth to say, her pupils ranged around,
Through pious awe, did deem it passing rare ;
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came !
Such favour did her past deportment claim :
And, if neglect had lavished on the ground
99

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Fragment of bread, she would collect the same ;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.

Herbs too she knew, and well of each could speak
That in her garden sipped the silvery dew ;
Where no vain flower disclosed a gawdy streak ;
But herbs for use, and physic, not a few,
Of grey renown, within those borders grew :
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue ;
The lowly gill, that never dares to climb ;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.

(From the School-Mistress.)

William Hamilton of Bangour

1704-1754.

THE BRAES OF YARROW1

BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow ?

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride ?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow ?
I gat her where I dare na weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,

Nor let thy heart lament to leive

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

i The entire Ballad is too long to give here ; but the verses quoted
are given more especially to mark its association with Wordsworth's
Yarrow poems.

100

DAVID MALLET

Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride ?

Why does she weep thy winsome marrow ?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen

Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow ?

Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,

And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

For she has tint her luver luver dear,

Her luver dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

David Mallet

1705-1765.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET

(The whole ballad consists of 17 stanzas, a few of which are

here quoted.)

'TWAS at the silent solemn hour

When night and morning meet ;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost

And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn

Clad in a wintry cloud ;
And clay cold was her lily hand,

That held her sable shroud.

101

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

" Awake ! " she cried, " thy true-love calls,

Come from her midnight grave
Now let thy pity hear the maid

Thy love refused to save.

" How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake ?
How could you win my virgin-heart,

Yet leave that heart to break ?

" But, hark ! the cock has warned me hence

A long and late adieu !
Come, see, false man, how low she lies

Who died for love of you."

The lark sang low ; the morning smiled,

With beams of rosy red
Pale William quaked in every limb

And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay
And stretched him on the green grass turf,

That wrapped her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore ;
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spoke never more.

James Macpherson

1736-1/96.

FINGAL DESCRIBES THE DESOLATION OF BAL-
CLUTHA, AND PROPHESIES OF HIS OWN FAME

I HAVE seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate.
The fire had resounded in the halls ; and the voice of the people

102

THOMAS CHATTERTON

is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its
place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its
lonely head ; the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked
out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round
its head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina ; silence is in the
house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards !
over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us ;
for, one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son
of the winged days ? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day ;
yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes ; it howls in
thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield.
And let the blast of the desert come ! We shall be renowned
in our day ! The mark of my arm shall be in battle ; my name
in the song of the bards. Raise the song ; send round the
shell ; let joy be heard in my hall. When thou, sun of heaven,
shalt fail ! if thou shalt fail, thou mighty light ! if thy bright-
ness is ior a season, like Fingal ; our fame shall survive thy
beams !

Such was the song of Fingal in the day of his joy. His thou-
sand bards leaned forward from their seats, to hear the voice
of the king. It was like the music of harps on the gale of the
spring. Lovely were thy thoughts, O Fingal !

(From Carthon.)

Thomas Chatterton

1752-1770.

SIR CHARLES BAWDIN SENTENCED TO DEATH1

THE feathered songster Chanticleer

Has wound his bugle horn,
And told the early villager

The coming of the morn.

1 The first piece given here is modernized throughout. The second
retains many of Chatterton's "unauthorized" words. The third is
given as he wrote it, spelling and all.

103

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks

Of light eclipse the gray ;
And heard the raven's croaking throat

Proclaim the fated day.

" Thou'rt right," quoth he, " for, by the God

That sits enthroned on high !
Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain,

To-day shall surely die."

Then with a jug of nappy ale

His knights did on him wait ;
" Go tell the traitor, that to-day

He leaves this mortal state."

Sir Canterlone then bended low,

With heart brimful of woe ;
He journeyed to the castle gate,

And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain,

And eke his loving wife,
With briny tears did wet the floor,

For good Sir Charles's life.

" O good Sir Charles ! " said Canterlone,

" Bad tidings do I bring " ;
" Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles,

" What says thy traitor king ? "

" I grieve to tell, before yon sun

Does from the welkin fly,
He hath upon his honour sworn,

That thou shalt surely die."

" We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles,

" Of that I'm not af eared ;
What boots to live a little space ?

Thank Jesu, I'm prepared ;
104

THOMAS CHATTERTON

But tell thy king, for mine he's not,

I'd sooner die to-day
Than live his slave, as many are,

Tho' I should live for aye."

(From The Bristowe Tragedy, or the Dethe of Syr Charles Baw-
din.)

A STORM IN SUMMER

In Virgine the sweltry sun gan sheen,
And hot upon the mees did cast his ray ;
The apple ruddied from its paly green
And the mole pear did bend the leafy spray,
The pied chelandry sung the livelong day ;
'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year,
And eke the ground was dight in its most deft aumere.

The sun was gleaming in the mid of day,
Dead-still the air and eke the welkin blue,
When from the sea arist in drear array
A heap of clouds of sable sullen hue,
The which full fast unto the woodland drew,
Hiltring attenes the sunne's fetive face
And the black tempest swollen and gathered up apace.

The gathered storm is ripe ; the big drops fall ;
The forswat meadows smeth and drench the rain,
The coming ghastness doth the cattle pall,
And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain ;
Dashed from the clouds the waters flott again ;
The welkin opes ; the yellow levin flies ;
And the hot, fiery smothe in the wide lowings dies.

List ; now the thunder's rattling clymming sound
Sheves slowly on, and then embollen clangs,

Mees] meads. Mole] soft. Chelandry] goldfinch. Aumere] a loose
robe. Hiltring] hiding. Attenes] at once. Fetive] beauteous. Forswat]
sunburnt. Smeth] smoke. Drench] cloud. Pall] appal. Flott] fly.
Smothe] steam or vapours. Clymming] noisy. Sheves] moves. Em-
bollen] swelled, strengthened.

105

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drowned,
Still on the gallard ear of terror hangs ;
The winds are up ; the lofty elmen swangs ;
Again the levin and the thunder pours,
And the full clouds are brast attenes in stonen showers.

(From An Excelente Balade of Charite.}

MY LOVE IS DEAD

O ! synge untoe mie roundelaie,
O ! droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,
Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,
Lycke a reynunge ryver bee ;

Mie love ys dedde,

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Blacke hys cryne as the wyntere nyghte,
Whyte hys rode as the sommer snowe,
Rodde his face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cald he lyes ynne the grave belowe ;

Mie love ys dedde

Gon to hys death-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Swote hys tyngue as the throstle's note,
Quycke ynn daunce as thought canne bee,
Deft hys taboure, codgelle stote,
O ! hee lyes bie the wyllowe tree :

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys death-bedde,

All under the wyllowe tree.

(From A Minstrel's Song in

Gallard] frighted. Elmen] elm-tree. Brast] burst. Stonen] stony.
Cryne] hair. Rode] complexion. Codgelle stote] cudgel stout.

106

JOHN DYER

John Dyer

THE PROSPECT FROM GRONGAR HILL

Now, I gain the mountain's brow,
What a landscape lies below !
No clouds, no vapours intervene ;
But the gay, the open scene
Does the face of Nature show,
In all the hues of Heaven's bow !
And, swelling to embrace the light
Spreads around beneath the sight.

Old castles on the cliffs arise,
Proudly towering in the skies !
Rushing from the woods, the spires
Seem from hence ascending fires !
Half his beams Apollo sheds
On the yellow mountain-heads !
Gilds the fleeces of the flocks,
And glitters on the broken rocks !
Below me trees unnumbered rise,
Beautiful in various dyes :
The gloomy pine, the poplar blue,
The yellow beech, the sable yew,
The slender fir that taper grows,
The sturdy oak with broad spread boughs.
And beyond the purple grove,
Haunt of Phyllis, queen of love !
Gaudy as the opening dawn,
Lies a long and level lawn,
On which a dark hill, steep and high,
Holds and charms the wandering eye !
Deep are his feet in Tony's flood,
His sides are clothed with waving wood,
107

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

And ancient towers crown his brow,
That cast an awful look below.

See on the mountain's southern side
Where the prospect opens wide,
Where the evening gilds the tide ;
How close and small the hedges lie !
What streaks of meadow cross the eye/
A step methinks may pass the stream,
So little distant dangers seem ;
So we mistake the Future's face,
Eyed through Hope's deluding glass ;
As yon summits soft and fair,
Clad in colours of the air,
Which to those who journey near
Barren brown and rough appear ;
Still we tread the same coarse way,
The present's still a cloudy day.

(From Grongar Hill.)

RITES AND FEASTING OF THE SHEEP-SHEARERS

.... With light fantastic toe the nymphs
Thither assembled, thither every swain ;
And o'er the dimpled stream a thousand flowers.
Pale lilies, roses, violets and pinks
Mixed with the greens of burnet, mint and thyme,
And trefoil, sprinkled with their sportive arms.
Such custom holds along the irriguous vales,
From Wreakin's brow to rocky Dolvoryn,
Sabrina's early haunt, ere yet she fled
The search of Guendolen, her stepdame proud,
With curious hate enraged. The jolly cheer
Spread on a mossy bank, untouched abides,
Till cease the rites : and now the mossy bank
Is gaily circled, and the jolly cheer
108

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

Dispersed in copious measure ; early fruits,

And those of frugal store, in husk or rind ;

Steeped grain, and curdled milk with dulcet cream

Soft tempered, in full merriment they quaff,

And cast about their gibes ; and some apace

Whistle to roundelays : their little ones

Look on delighted : while the mountain-woods,

And winding valleys, with the various notes

Of pipe, sheep, kine, and birds, and liquid brooks

Unite their echoes : near at hand the wide

Majestic wave of Severn slowly rolls

Along the deep divided glebe : the flood,

And trading bark with low contracted sail,

Linger among the reeds and copsy banks

To listen ; and to view the joyous scene.

(From The Fleece.}

Oliver Goldsmith

1728-1774.

ITALY

FAR to the right, where Apennine ascends,
Bright as the summer, Italy extends :
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side,
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride ;
While oft some temple's mouldering tops between
With memorable grandeur mark the scene.
Could Nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
The sons of Italy were surely blest.
Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
That proudly rise or humbly court the ground ;
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Whose bright succession decks the varied year ;
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die ;
109

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

(From The Traveller.)

HOLLAND

To men of other minds my fancy flies,
Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies.
Methinks her patient sons before me stand,
Where the broad ocean leans against the land,
And, sedulous to stop the coming tide,
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride.
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow,
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow ;
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar,
Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore :
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile ;
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile :
The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale,
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail,
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain,
A new creation rescued from his reign.

(From The Same.)

THE VILLAGE, THEN AND NOW

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,
The mingling notes came softened from below ;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young ;
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school ;
The watch dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ;
no

OLIVER GOLDSMITH

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,
And filled each pause the nightingale had made.
But now the sounds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread.
But all the blooming flush of life is fled :
All but yon widowed solitary thing,
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ;
She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,
To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,
To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn :
She only left of all the harmless train,
The sad historian of the pensive plain.

(From The Deserted Village.')

THE VILLAGE INN

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,
And news much older than their ale went round ;
Imagination fondly stoops to trace
The parlour splendours of that festive place ;
The whitewashed wall, the nicely sanded floor,
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ;
The chest contrived a double debt to pay,
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ;
The pictures placed for ornament and use,
The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ;
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,
With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay ;
While broken tea- cups, wisely kept for show,
Rang'd o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

(From The Same.)
in

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Thomas Warton

1728-1790.

SONNET

WHILE summer suns o'er the gay prospect played,

Through Surrey's verdant scenes, where Epsom spreads

Mid intermingling elms her flowery meads,

And Hascombe's hill, in towering groves arrayed,

Reared its romantic steep, with mind serene,

I journeyed blithe. Full pensive I returned ;

For now my breast with hopeless passion burned,

Wet with hoar mists appeared the gaudy scene,

Which late in careless indolence I passed ;

And autumn all around those hues had cast

Where past delight my recent grief might trace.

Sad change, that Nature a congenial gloom

Should wear, when most, my cheerless mood to chase,

I wished her green attire, and wonted bloom !

Joseph Warton

1722-1800.

FROM THE ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALE

0 THOU, that to the moon-light vale
Warblest oft thy plaintive tale,

What time the village's murmurs cease,
And the still eye is hushed to peace,
When now no busy sound is heard,
Contemplation's favourite bird !

Chauntress of night, whose amorous song
(First heard the tufted groves among)
Warns wanton Mabba to begin
Her revels on the circled green,
Whene'er by meditation led

1 nightly seek some distant mead,

112

JAMES BEATTIE

A short repose of cares to find,

And sooth my love-distracted mind,

O fail not then, sweet Philomel,

Thy sadly- warbled woes to tell ;

In sympathetic numbers join

Thy pangs of luckless love with mine.

James Beattie

1735-1803.

THE YOUTH WITH NATURE

Lo ! where the stripling, wrapt in wonder, roves,

Beneath the precipice o'erhung with pine ;

And sees, on high, amidst the encircling groves,

From cliff to cliff the foaming torrents shine :

While waters, woods, and winds, in concert join,

And Echo swells the chorus to the skies,

Would Edwin this majestic scene resign

For aught the huntsman's puny craft supplies ?

Ah ! no ; he better knows great Nature's charms to prize.

And oft he traced the uplands, to survey,

When o'er the sky advanced the kindling dawn,

The crimson cloud, blue main, and mountain grey,

And lake, dim-gleaming on the smoky lawn :

Far to the West the long long vale withdrawn,

Where twilight loves to linger for a while ;

And now he faintly kens the bounding fawn,

And villager abroad at early toil

But lo ! the Sun appears ! and heaven, earth, ocean, smile.

And oft the craggy cliff he loved to climb,

When all in mist the world below was lost,

What dreadful pleasure ! there to stand sublime,

Like shipwrecked mariner on desert coast,

And view the enormous waste of vapour, tost

VOL. vi. 113 I

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

In billows, lengthening to the horizon round,
Now scooped in gulfs, with mountains now embossed !
And hear the voice of mirth and song rebound,
Flocks, herds, and waterfalls, along the hoar profound !

(From The Minstrel.)

Michael Bruce

1746-1767.

RURAL LIFE

BUT chief mine eye on the subjected vale
Of Leven pleased looks down ; while o'er the trees,
That shield the hamlet with the shade of years,
The towering smoke of early fire ascends,
And the shrill cock proclaims the advanced morn.
How blest the man ! who, in these peaceful plains,
Ploughs his paternal field ; far from the noise,
The care, and bustle of a busy world.
All in the sacred, sweet, sequestered vale
Of solitude, the secret primrose-path
Of rural life, he dwells ; and with him dwells
Peace and content, twins of the Sylvan shade,
And all the graces of the golden age.
Such is Agricola, the wise, the good
By nature formed for the quiet retreat,
The silent path of life. . . .
Deep in the bottom of the flowery vale,
With blooming fallows and the leafy twine
Of verdant alders fenced, his dwelling stands
Complete in rural elegance. The door,
By which the poor or pilgrim never passed,
Still open, speaks the master's bounteous heart.
There, O how sweet ! amid the fragrant shrubs
At evening cool to sit ; while, on their boughs,
The nested songsters twitter o'er their young,

114

JOHN LANGHORNE

And the hoarse low of folded cattle breaks
The silence, wafted o'er the sleeping lake,
Whose waters glow beneath the purple tinge
Of western cloud ; while converse sweet deceives
The stealing foot of time.

(From Lochleven.)

John Langhorne

1735-1779.

AN APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS

FOR him, who, lost to every hope of life,
Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair ;
For the poor vagrant, feel, while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought,
Believe with social mercy and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.
Perhaps in some inhospitable shore
The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore,
Who, then, no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain ;
But o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptized in tears.

(From The Country Justice.)

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

William Mickle

1735-1788.

THE MARINER'S WIFE1

AND are ye sure the news is true ?

And are ye sure he's weel ?
Is this a time to think of wark !

Ye jades, lay by your wheel ;
Is this the time to spin a thread

When Colin's at the door ?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay

And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a' ;
There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown ;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on

My stockin's pearly blue ;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak' a clean fireside,

Put on the muckle pot,
Gie little Kate her button gown

And Jock his Sunday coat ;
And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw,
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's been long awa'.

1 The authorship is uncertain. The poem may be by Jean Adams
(1710-1765).

116

WILLIAM MICKLE

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop

Been fed this month and mair ;
Mak' haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare ;
And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa' ?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech

His breath like caller air ;
His very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair —
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought.

In troth I'm like to greet.

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave :
And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave :
And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak ?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought

In troth I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a' ;
There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa'.

117

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Christopher Smart

1722-1771.

A SONG TO DAVID

O THOU that sitt'st upon a throne,
With harp of high, majestic tone,

To praise the King of Kings :
And voice of heaven, ascending, swell,
Which, while its deeper notes excel,

Clear as a clarion rings.

O servant of God's holiest charge,
The minister of praise at large,

Which thou mayst now receive ;
From thy blest mansion hail and hear,
From topmost eminence appear,

To this the wreath I weave.

He sang of God — the mighty source
Of all things — the stupendous force

On which all strength depends ;
From Whose right arm, beneath Whose eyes,
All period, power, and enterprise

Commences, reigns and ends.

Of man — the semblance and effect
Of God and love — the saint elect

For infinite applause —
To rule the land, and briny broad,
To be laborious in his laud,

And heroes in his cause.

The world — the clustering spheres He made,
The glorious light, the soothing shade,
Dale, champaign, grove and hill ;

CHRISTOPHER SMART

The multitudinous abyss,
Where secrecy remains in bliss
And wisdom hides her skill.

Trees, plants, and flowers — of virtuous root ;
Gem yielding blossom, yielding fruit,

Choice gums and precious balm ;
Bless ye the nosegay in the vale,
And with the sweetness of the gale

Enrich the thankful psalm.

Of fowl — even every beak and wing
Which cheer the winter, hail the spring,

That live in peace or prey ;
They that make music, or that mock,
The quail, the brave domestic cock,

The raven, swan, and jay.

Of fishes — every size and shape,
Which nature frames of light escape,

Devouring man to shun :
The shells are in the wealthy deep,
The shoals upon the surface leap,

And love the glancing sun.

Of beasts — the beaver plods his task ;
While the sleek tigers roll and bask ;

Nor yet the shades arouse ;
Her cave the mining coney scoops ;
Where o'er the mead the mountain stoops,

The kids exult and browse.

Of gems — their virtue and their price,
Which, hid in earth from man's device,

Their darts of lustre sheath ;
The jasper of the master's stamp,
The topaz blazing like a lamp,

Among the mines beneath,
119

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Blest was the tenderness he felt,
When to his graceful harp he knelt,

And did for audience call ;
When Satan with his hand he quelled,
And in serene suspense he held

The frantic throes of Saul.

O David, scholar of the Lord !
Such is thy science, whence reward,

And infinite degree ;
O strength, O sweetness, lasting ripe,
God's harp thy symbol, and thy type

The lion and the bee.

Tell them, I AM, Jehovah said

To Moses ; while earth heard in dread,

And, smitten to the heart,
At once above, beneath, around,
All Nature, without voice or sound,

Replied, " O Lord, THOU ART.

Thou art — to give and to confirm,
For each his talent and his term ;

All flesh thy bounties share ;
Thou shalt not call thy brother fool :
The porches of the Christian school

Are meekness, peace and prayer."

• * • • •

Strong is the lion — like a coal
His eyeball — like a bastion's mole

His chest against the foes :
Strong the gier-eagle on his sail,
Strong against tide the enormous whale

Emerges as he goes.
120

ALLAN RAMSAY

But stronger still in earth and air,
And in the sea, the man of prayer,

And far beneath the tide :
And in the seat to faith assigned
Where ask is have, where seek is find,

Where knock is open wide.

Glorious the sun in mid career ;
Glorious the assembled fires appear ;

Glorious the comet's train :
Glorious the trumpet and alarm ;
Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm ;

Glorious the enraptured main.

Glorious the northern lights astream ;
Glorious the song, when God's the theme ;

Glorious the thunder's roar :
Glorious Hosannah from the den ;
Glorious the catholic Amen ;

Glorious the martyr's gore.

Glorious — more glorious — is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,

By meekness called Thy Son ;
Thou that stupendous truth believed ;
And now the matchless deed's achieved,

Determined, Dared and Done.

Allan Ramsay

1686-1758.

SONG

MY Peggy is a young thing,
Just entered in her teens,
Fair as the day, and sweet as May,
Fair as the day, and always gay.
121

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

My Peggy is a young thing,

And I'm not very auld,
Yet well I like to meet her at

The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,

Whene'er we meet alane,
I wish nae mair to lay my care, —
I wish nae mair of a' that's rare,
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly
To a' the lave I'm cauld ;
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At the wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town

That I look down upon a crown.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blithe and bauld ;
And naething gie's me sic delight
As wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,

When on my pipe I play,
By a* the rest it is confest, —
By a' the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae softly,

And in her songs are tauld,
With innocence, the wale o' sense,
At wauking of the fauld.

(From The Gentle Shepherd.}

Lave] rest, remainder. Wauking of the fauld] the act of watching the
sheepfold, about the end of summer, when the lambs werg weaned and
the ewes milked. Wale] best.

122

ROBERT FERGUSSON

MOTHER-HAPPINESS

Yes, 'tis a heartsome thing to be a wife,

When round the ingle-edge young sprouts are rife.

Gif I'm sae happy, I shall have delight

To hear their little plaints, and keep them right.

Wow, Jenny ! can there greater pleasure be,

Than see sic wee tots toolying at your knee ;

When a' the ettle at, — then* greatest wish, —

Is to be made of, and obtain a kiss ?

Can there be toil in tenting day and night

The like of them, when love makes care delight ?

(From The Same.)

Robert Fergusson

1758-1774.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF SCOTS MUSIC

ON Scotia's plains, in days of yore,
When lads and lasses tartan wore,
Saft Music rang on ilka shore

In hamely weid ;
But harmony is now no more

And Music dead.

Whan the saft vernal breezes ca'
The grey-haired Winter fogs awa'
Naebody than is heard to blaw,

Near hill or mead,
On chaunter, or on aiten straw,

Sin' Music's dead.

Nae lasses now, on Summer days,
Will Hit at bleachin' o' their claes ;

Ettle] aim.
Chaunter] bagpipe.
133

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Nae herds on Yarrow's bonny braes,

Or banks o' Tweed,
Delight to chant their hamely lays,

Sin' Music's dead.

At gloamin' now the bagpipe's dumb,
Whan weary owsen hameward come,
Sae sweetly as it wont to burn.

An' pibrochs skreed ;
We never hear its warlike hum

For Music's dead.

Macgibbon's gane ! ah ! wae's my heart !
The man in Music maist expert,
Wha could sweet melody impart,

An' tune the reed
Wi' sic a slee an' pawky art ;

But now he's dead.

Could lavrocks, at the dawnin' day,
Could linties, chirmin' frae the spray,
Or todlin burns that smoothly play

Ow'r gowden bed,
Compare wi' Birks o' Invermay ?

But now they're dead.

O Scotland ! that could ance afford
To band the pith o' Roman sword,
Winna your songs, wi' joint accord,

To battle speed,
And fight till music be restored.

Whilk now lies dead ?

Slee] ingenious. Pawky] witty. Linties] linnets. Chirmin'] warbling.
Todlin] purling. Gowden] golden.

124

JANE ELLIOT

Jane Elliot

1727-1805.

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN
(" Flowers of the Forest.")

I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day ;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning —

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At brights, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae ;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled and gray ;

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play ;

But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border !

The English for once, by guile wan the day ;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking ;

Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning —

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Loaning] lane, field-track. Wede] reft. Brights] sheep- folds. Dowie]
dreary. Daffing, gabbing] joking, chatting. Leglin] milk-pail. Band-
sters] sheaf-binders. Lyart] faded. Fleeching] coaxing. Swankies]
brave lads. Bogle] bogey, ghost. Dool] mourning.

125

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

William Blake

1757-1827.

SONG

How sweet I roamed from field to field,

And tasted all the summer's pride,
Till I the Prince of Love beheld

Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He showed me lilies for my hair,

And blushing roses for my brow ;
He led me through his gardens fair,

Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,

And Phoebus fired my vocal rage ;
He caught me in his silken net,

And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me,

Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

(From Poetical Sketches.)

SONG

My silks and fine array,

My smiles and languished air,
By love are driven away ;

And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave :
Such end true lovers have.

His face is fair as heaven,

When springing buds unfold ;
O why to him was't given

Whose heart is wintry cold ?
126

WILLIAM BLAKE

His breast is love's all-worshipped tomb,
Where all love's pilgrims come.

Bring me an axe and spade,

Bring me a winding-sheet ;
When I my grave have made,

Let winds and tempests beat ;
Then down I'll lie, as cold as clay,
True love doth pass away.

(From The Same.}

TO THE MUSES

Whether on Ida's shady brow,

Or in the chambers of the East,
The chambers of the Sun, that now

From ancient melody have ceas'd ;

Whether in heaven ye wander fair

Or the green corners of the earth,
Or the blue regions of the air,

Where the melodious winds have birth ;

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove;

Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry;

Hew have you left the ancient love,

That bards of old enjoyed in you !
The languid strings do scarcely move,

The sound is forced, the notes are few !

(From The Same.)

INTRODUCTION TO SONGS OF INNOCENCE

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
127

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me :

" Pipe a song about a Lamb ! "

So I piped with merry cheer.
" Piper, pipe that song again ; "

So I piped : he wept to hear.

" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ;

Sing thy songs of happy cheer ! '
So I sung the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

" Piper sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read ! "

So he vanished from my sight ;
And I plucked a hollow reed.

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,

Every child may joy to hear,

THE LAMB

Little Lamb, who made thee ?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life and bid thee feed
By the stream and o'er the mead ;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright ;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice ?

Little lamb, who made thee ?

Dost thou know who made thee ?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee :
Little lamb, I'll tell thee :
He is called by thy name,
128

WILLIAM BLAKE

For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.

Little lamb, God bless thee !

Little lamb, God bless thee !

(From Songs of Innocence.)

INFANT JOY

" I have no name ;

I am but two days old ! "•

What shall I call thee ?
" I happy am

Joy is my name."

Sweet joy befall thee !

Pretty joy !

Sweet joy but two days old.

Sweet joy I call thee :

Thou dost smile,

I sing the while ;

Sweet joy befall thee !

(From The Same.)

THE DIVINE IMAGE

To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love,
All pray in their distress,

And to these virtues of delight
Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love,
Is God our Father dear,

And Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love,

Is man, His child and care.
VOL. vi. 129

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

For Mercy has a human heart ;

Pity a human face ;
And Love the human form divine,

And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man of every clime,

That prays in his distress,
Prays to the human form divine :

Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,

In heathen, Turk or Jew.
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell,

There God is dwelling too.

(From The Same.)

A DREAM

Once a dream did weave a shade
O'er my angel-guarded bed,
That an emmet lost its way
Where on grass methought I lay.

Troubled, wildered, and forlorn,
Dark, benighted, travel-worn,
Over many a tangled spray,
All heart broke I heard her say :

" O my children ! do they cry ?
Do they hear their father sigh ?
Now they look abroad to see,
Now return and weep for me ! "

Pitying I dropped a tear,
But I saw a glow-worm near,
Who replied, " What wailing wight
Calls the watchman of the night ?
130

WILLIAM BLAKE

I am set to light the ground,
While the beetle goes his round :
Follow now the beetle's hum ;
Little wanderer, hie thee home ! "

(From The Same.)

THE TIGER

Tiger, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy dreadful symmetry ?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes ?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire ?

And what shoulder, and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart ?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet ?

What the hammer ? What the chain ?
In what furnace was thy brain ?
What the anvil ? What dread grasp
Dares its deadly terrors clasp ?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile his work to see ?
Did He who made the lamb make thee ?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry ?

(From Songs of Experience.)

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

INFANT SORROW

My mother groaned, my father wept :
Into the dangerous world I leapt,
Helpless, naked, piping loud,
Like a fiend hid in a cloud.

Struggling in my father's hands,
Striving against my swaddling bands,
Bound and weary, I thought best,
To sulk upon my mother's breast.

(From The Same.)

A DIVINE IMAGE

Cruelty has a human heart,

And jealousy a human face ;
Terror the human form divine,

And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forged iron,

The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,

The human heart its hungry gorge.

(From The Same.)

THE POISON TREE

I was angry with my friend :

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe :

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears,
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
132

WILLIAM BLAKE

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright,
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine —

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole ;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

(From The Same.

LONDON

I wander through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames doth flow,

A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,

In every infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forged manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper's cry,

Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier's sigh

Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear,

How the youthful harlot's curse
Blasts the new-born infant's tear,

And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

(From The Same.)

133

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

PRAYER OF KING EDWARD, BEFORE THE BATTLE OF

CRESSY

O Thou to whose fury the nations are

But as dust ! — maintain thy servant's right.

Without thine aid, the twisted mail, and spear,

And forged helm, and shield of seven times beaten brass,

Are the idle trophies of the vanquisher.

When confusion rages, when the field is in a flame,

When the cries of blood tear horror from heaven,

And yelling Death runs up and down the ranks,

Let Liberty, the chartered right of Englishmen,

Won by our fathers in many a glorious field

Enerve my soldiers ; let Liberty

Blaze in each countenance, and fire the battle.

The enemy fight in chains, invisible chains but heavy ;

Their minds are fettered ; then how can they be free ?

While, like the mounting flame,

We spring to battle o'er the floods of death.

(From King Edward the Third.}

William Cowper

1731-1800.

THE WAITING SOUL

BREATHE from the gentle south, O Lord,

And cheer me from the north ;
Blow on the treasures of thy word,

And call the spices forth.

I wish, Thou know'st, to be resigned,

And wait with patient hope ;
But hope delayed fatigues the mind,

And drinks the spirits up.
134

WILLIAM COWPER

Help me to reach the distant goal,

Confirm my feeble knee,
Pity the sickness of a soul,

That faints for love of thee.

Cold as I feel this heart of mine

Yet since I feel it so,
It yields some hope of life divine

Within, however low.

I seem forsaken and alone,

I hear the lion roar ;
And every door is shut but one,

And that is mercy's door.

There, till the dear deliverer come,

I'll wait with humble prayer ;
And when he calls his exile home,

The Lord shall find him there.

(From Olney Hymns.)

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE

Oh that those lips had language ! Life has passed

With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see,

The same that oft in childhood solaced me ;

Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,

" Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! "

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes

(Blest be the Art that can immortalize, —

The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
135

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — " Yes."
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such ? — It was — Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more !

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floors that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; —
So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore
" Where tempests never beat nor billows roar " ;
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed —
The howling blasts drive devious, tempest- tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

136

WILLIAM COWPER

TO MARY

The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast ;
Ah would that this might be the last !
My Mary !

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow —
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary !

Thy needles once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now most disused, and shine no more,

My Mary !

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary !

But well thou playedst the housewife's part.
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary !

Thy indistinct impressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream ;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,

My Mary !

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary !

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see ?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary !

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign ;
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,

My Mary !

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two ; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary !

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary !

But ah ! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe.

My Mary !

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last.

My Mary !

THE CASTAWAY

Obscurest night involved the sky,
The Atlantic billows roared,

When such a destined wretch as I,
Washed headlong from on board,
138

WILLIAM COWPER

Of friends, of hope, of all bereft
His floating home for ever left.

Not long beneath the whelming brine

Expert to swim, he lay,
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,

Or courage die away :
But waged with Death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.

He shouted ; nor his friends had failed
To check the vessel's course,

But so the furious blast prevailed,
That, pitiless perforce,

They left their outcast mate behind,

And scudded still before the wind.

Some succour yet they could afford;

And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord

Delayed not to bestow ;
But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.

At length, his transient respite past,

His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in every blast,

Could catch the sound no more :
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.

No voice divine the storm allayed,

No light propitious shone ;
When snatched from all effectual aid,

We perished, each alone :
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he.
139

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE RETIRED CAT

A Poet's cat, sedate and grave,
As poet well could wish to have,
Was much addicted to enquire
For nooks to which she might retire,
And where, secure as mouse in chink,
She might repose, or sit and think.

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined.
With linen of the softest kind,
With such as merchants introduce
From India for the ladies' use,
A drawer impending o'er the rest,
Half open in the topmost chest,
Of depth enough, and none to spare,
Invited her to slumber there ;
Puss with delight beyond expression
Surveyed the scene and took possession.
Recumbent at her ease, ere long,
And lulled by her own humdrum song,
She left the cares of life behind,
And slept as she would sleep her last,
When in came, housewifely inclined,
The chambermaid and shut it fast ;
By no malignity impelled,
But all unconscious whom it held.

Awakened by the shock (cried Puss)
" Was ever cat attended thus ?
The open drawer was left, I see,
Merely to prove a nest for me,
For soon as I was well composed,
Then came the maid and it was closed,
How smooth those 'kerchiefs and how sweet !
Oh ! what a delicate retreat !
I will resign myself to rest
140

WILLIAM COWPER

Till Sol, declining in the west,
Shall call to supper, when, no doubt,
Susan will come and let me out."
The evening came, the sun descended,
And Puss remained still unattended.

That night, by chance, the poet watching,

Heard the inexplicable scratching ;

His noble heart went pit-a-pat,

And to himself he said—" What's that ? "

He drew the curtain at his side,

And forth he peeped, but nothing spied,

Yet, by his ear directed, guessed

Something imprisoned in the chest,

And, doubtful what, with prudent care,

Resolved it should continue there.

At length a voice which well he knew,

A long and melancholy mew,

Saluting his poetic ears,

Consoled him and dispelled his fears ;

He left his bed ; he trod the floor,

He 'gan in haste the drawers explore,

The lowest first, and without stop,

The rest in order to the top.

For 'tis a truth well-known to most,

That whatsoever thing is lost,

We seek it, ere it come to light,

In every cranny but the right.

Forth skipped the cat, not now replete

As erst with any self-conceit,

Nor in her own fond apprehension

A theme for all the world's attention,

But modest, sober, cured of all

Her notions hyperbolical,

And wishing for a place of rest

Anything rather than a chest.

141

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

PASSAGES FROM THE TASK
A COUNTRY LANDSCAPE

How oft upon yon eminence, our pace

Has slackened to a pause, and we have borne

The ruffling wind, scarce conscious that it blew,

While admiration feeding at the eye,

And still unsated, dwelt upon the scene.

Thence with what pleasure have we just discerned

The distant plough slow-moving, and beside

His labouring team, that swerved not from the track,

The sturdy swain diminished to a boy ?

Here Ouse, slow winding through a level plain

Of spacious meads with cattle sprinkled o'er,

Conducts the eye along his sinuous course

Delighted. There fast rooted in his bank

Stand, never overlooked, our favourite elms

That screen the herdsman's solitary hut ;

While far beyond and overthwart the stream

That as with molten glass, inlays the vale,

The sloping land recedes into the clouds ;

Displaying on its various side the grace

Of hedgerow beauties numberless, square tower,

Tall spire, from which the sound of cheerful bells

lust undulates upon the listening ear ;

Groves, heaths, and smoking villages remote.

(Bk. i.)

CRAZY KATE

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed :
With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.
A serving- maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves

142

WILLIAM COWPER

To distant shores, and she would sit and weep
At what a sailor suffers ; fancy too,
Delusive most where warmest wishes are,
Would oft anticipate his glad return,
And dream of transports she was not to know.
She heard the doleful tidings of his death,
And never smiled again. And now she roams
The dreary waste ; there spends the livelong day,
And there, unless when charity forbids,
The livelong night. A tattered apron hides,
Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides a gown
More tattered still ; and both but ill conceal
A bosom heaved with never-ceasing sighs.
She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And hoards them in her sleeve ; but needful food,
Though pressed with hunger oft, or comelier clothes,
Though pinched with cold, asks never. — Kate is crazed !

(Bk. i.)

I WAS A STRICKEN DEER

I was a stricken deer that left the herd
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infixt
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore.
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts
He drew them forth, and healed, and bade me live.
Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those
My former partners of the peopled scene.
With few associates, and not wishing more.

(Bk. iii.)

143

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE BASTILLE !

Ye horrid towers, the abode of broken hearts,

Ye dungeons and ye cages of despair,

That monarchs have supplied from age to age,

With music such as suits their sovereign ears,

The sighs and groans of miserable men !

There's not an English heart that would not leap

To hear that ye were fallen at last, to know

That even our enemies, so oft employed

In forging chains for us, themselves were free.

For he that values liberty, confines

His zeal for her predominance within

No narrow bounds ; her cause engages him

Wherever pleaded. 'Tis the cause of man.

ON LIBERTY

'Tis liberty alone that gives the flower
Of fleeting life its lustre and perfume,
And we are weeds without it. All constraint,
Except what wisdom lays on evil men,
Is evil ; hurts the faculties, impedes
Their progress in the road of science ; blinds
The eyesight of discovery, and begets,
In those that suffer it, a sordid mind
Bestial, a meagre intellect, unfit
To be the tenant of man's noble form.
Thee therefore still, blameworthy as thou art,
With all thy loss of empire, and though squeezed
By public exigence, till annual food
Fails for the craving hunger of the state,
Thee I account still happy, and the chief
Among the nations, seeing thou art free,
My native nook of earth ! Thy clime is rude,
Replete with vapours, and disposes much
All hearts to sadness, and none more than mine ;

144

WILLIAM COWPER

Thine unadulterate manners are less soft

And plausible than social life requires.

And thou hast need of discipline and art

To give thee what politer France receives

From Nature's bounty — that humane address

And sweetness, without which no pleasure is

In converse, either starved by cold reserve,

Or flushed with force dispute, a senseless brawl ;

Yet, being free, I love thee ; for the sake

Of that one feature, can be well content,

Disgraced as thou hast been, poor as thou art,

To seek no sublunary rest beside.

But once enslaved, farewell ! I could endure

Chains nowhere patiently ; and chains at home,

Where I am free by birthright, not at all.

Then what were left of roughness in the grain

Of British natures, wanting its excuse

That it belongs to freemen, would disgust

And shock me. I should then with double pain

Feel all the rigour of thy fickle clime ;

And, if I must bewail the blessing lost

For which our Hampdens and our Sidneys bled,

I would at least bewail it under skies

Milder, among a people less austere,

In scenes which, having never known me free,

Would not reproach me with the loss I felt.

He is the freeman whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain
That hellish foes confederate for his harm
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of Nature, and though poor perhaps compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
VOL. vi. 145

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye !
And smiling say — My Father made them all !

(Bk. v.)

ANIMAL LIFE

These shades are all my own. The timorous hare,

Grown so familiar with frequent guest,

Scarce shuns me ; and the stock dove unalarmed

Sits cooing in the pine-tree, nor suspends

His long love-ditty for my near approach.

Drawn from some refuge in some lonely elm

That age or injury has hollowed deep,

Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves

He has outslept the winter, ventures forth

To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun,

The squirrel, flippant, pert, and full of play ;

He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird,

Ascends the neighbouring beech ; there whisks his brush,

And perks his ears, and stamps and scolds aloud,

With all the prettiness of feigned alarm,

And anger insignificantly fierce.

(Bk. vi.)

A GLADE IN WINTER — MUSINGS

I tread

The walk still verdant under oaks and elms
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof though movable through all its length,
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.

146

WILLIAM COWPER

No noise is here, nor none that hinders thought :
The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes and more than half-suppressed.
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendant drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below,
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence. Meditation here
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
may give an useful lesson to the head,
And learning wisei grow without his books.
Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have ofttimes no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men ;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course

Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,

And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,

And lanes in which the primrose ere her time

Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,

Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,

Not shy as in the world, and to be won

By slow solicitation, seize at once

The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

(Book vi.)

147

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

George Crabbe

1754-1832.

OLD AGE AND POVERTY

FOR yonder see that hoary swain, whose age
Can with no cares except its own engage ;
Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to see
The bare arms broken from the withering tree,
On which, a boy, he climbed the loftiest bough,
Then his first joy, but his sad emblem now.

He once was chief in all the rustic trade ;
His steady hand the straightest furrow made ;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allowed ;
A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,
He hears and smiles, then thinks again and sighs :
For now he journeys to his grave in pain ;
The rich disdain him ; nay the poor disdain ;
Alternate masters now their slave command,
Urge the weak efforts of his feeble hand,
And, when his age attempts its task in vain,
With ruthless taunts, of lazy poor complain.

Oft may you see him, when he tends the sheep,
His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep ;
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow
O'er his white locks and bury them in snow,
When, roused by rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn : —

" Why do I live, when I desire to be
At once from life and life's long labour free ?
Like leaves in spring the young are blown away,
Without the sorrows of a slow decay ;
I, like yon withered leaf remain behind,
Nipt by the frost and shivering in the wind ;
There it abides till younger buds come on,
148

GEORGE CRABBE

As I, now all my fellow-swains are gone ;

Then from the rising generation thrust,

It falls, like me, unnoticed to the dust,

These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,

Are others' gain, but killing cares to me ;

To me the children of my youth are lords,

Cool in their looks, but hasty in their words :

Wants of their own demand their care ; and who

Feels his own want and succours others too ?

A lonely wretched man, in pain I go,

None need my help, and none relieve my woe ;

Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,

And men forget the wretch they would not aid."

Thus groan the old, till by disease oppressed,

They taste a final woe, and then they rest.

(From The Village.')

THE RIVER TIDES

(Peter Grimes, a fisherman of bad reputation, can find none
to work with him, and he haunts the river.}

Thus by himself compelled to live each day,
To wait for certain hours the tide's delay ;
At the same time the same dull views to see,
The bounding marsh-bank and the blighted tree ;
The water only, when the tides were high,
When low, the mud half-covered and half-dry ;
The sun-burnt tar that blisters on the planks,
And bank-side stakes in their uneven ranks ;
Heaps of entangled weeds that slowly float,
As the tide rolls by the impeded boat.

When tides were neap, and, in the sultry day,
Through the tall bounding mud-banks made their way
Which on each side rose swelling, and below
The dark warm flood ran silently and slow ;
There anchoring, Peter chose from man to hide,

149

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

There hang his head, and view the lazy tide
In its hot slimy channel slowly glide ;
Where the small eels that left the deeper way
For the warm shore, within the shallows play ;
Where gaping mussels, left upon the mud,
Slope their slow passage to the fallen flood ; —
Here dull and hopeless he'd lie down and trace
How sidelong crabs had scrawled their crooked race,
Or sadly listen to the tuneless cry
Of fishing gull or clanging golden-eye ;
What time the sea-birds to the marsh would come,
And the loud bittern, from the bull-rush home,
Gave from the salt ditch side the bellowing boom ;
He nursed the feelings these dull scenes produce,
And loved to stop beside the opening sluice;
Where the small stream, confined in narrow bound,
Ran with a dull, unvaried, saddening sound ;
Where all, presented to the eye or ear,
Oppressed the soul with misery, grief, and fear.

(From The Borough.')

THE KEEPER'S WIFE

(Rachel was courted by two brothers, one of whom was a
poacher, and one a gamekeeper. She loves the poacher, but
his doings put him in power of the law, while his rival brother,
who is the prosecutor, makes her marriage with him the condition
of his forbearance. She consults her imprisoned lover with the
result given in the following passage.}

She saw him fettered, full of grief, alone,
Still as the dead, and he suppressed a groan
At her appearance — Now she prayed for strength ;
And the sad couple could converse at length.
It was a scene that shook her to repeat, —
Life fought with love, both powerful, and both sweet.
" Wilt thou die, Robert, or preserve thy life ?
150

GEORGE CRABBE

Shall I be thine own maid, or James's wife? "
" His wife ! — No ! — never will I thee resign —
No, Rachel, no ! " — " Then am I ever thine :
I know thee rash and guilty, — but to thee
I pledged my vow, and thine will ever be.
Yet think again, — the life that God has lent
Is thine, but not to cast away — consent,
If 'tis thy wish ; for this I made my way
To thy distress — command, and I obey."

" Perhaps my brother may have gained thy heart ? '
" Then why this visit, if I wished to part ?
Was it — ah, man ungrateful ! — wise to make
Effort like this, to hazard for thy sake
A spotless reputation, and to be
A suppliant to that stern man for thee !
But I forgive, — thy spirit has been tried,
And thou art weak, but still thou must decide
I asked thy brother James, ' Wouldst thou command
Without the loving heart, the obedient hand ' ?
I ask thee, Robert, lover, canst thou part
With this poor hand, when master of the heart ? —
He answered, Yes ! — I tarry thy reply,
Resigned with him to live, content with thee to die.''

Assured of this, with spirits low and tame,
Were life so purchased — there a death of shame ;
Death once his merriment, but now his dread,
And he with terror thought upon the dead :
" O ! sure 'tis better to endure the care
And pain of life, than go we know not where : —
And is there not the dreaded hell for sin,
Or is it only this I feel within ?
That if it lasted, no man would sustain,
But would by any change relieve the pain :
Forgive me, love ! it is a loathsome thing
To live not thine ; but still this dreaded sting
Of death torments me, — I to nature cling.

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Go, and be his — but love him not, be sure —
Go, love him not, — and I will life endure :
He, too, is mortal ! " — Rachel deeply sighed,
But would no more converse : she had complied,
And was no longer free — she was his brother's bride.

" Farewell ! " she said, with kindness, but not fond,
Feeling the pressure of the recent bond,
And put her tenderness apart to give
Advice to one who so desired to live :
She then departed, joined the attending guide,
Reflected — wept — was sad — was satisfied.

(The sacrifice is in vain. The outlaw returns to his evil
ways and the brothers fall by each other's hands in a midnight
encounter. They are found by the distracted Rachel, whose life
henceforward is one of sad resignation. The following passage
tells of the final scene of the tragedy.)

'Twas past the dead of night, when every sound
That nature mingles might be heard around ;
But none from man, — man's feeble voice was hushed,
Where rivers swelling roared, and woods were crushed ;
Hurried by these, the wife could sit no more,
But must the terrors of the night explore.
Softly she left her door, her garden gate,
And seemed as then committed to her fate :
To every horrid thought and doubt a prey,
She hurried on, already lost her way :
Oft as she glided on in that sad night,
She stopped to listen and she looked for light ;
An hour she wandered, and was still to learn
Aught of her husband's safety or return :
A sudden break of heavy clouds could show
A place she knew not, but she strove to know ;
Still further on she crept with trembling feet,
With hope a friend, with fear a foe to meet ;

GEORGE CRABBE

And there was something fearful in the sight

And in the sound of what appeared to-night ;

For now, of night and nervous terror bred,

Arose a strong and superstitious dread ;

She heard strange noises, and the shapes she saw

OMancied beings bound her soul in awe.

The moon was risen, and she sometimes shone

Through thick white clouds, that flew tumultuous on,

Passing beneath her with an eagle's speed,

That her soft light imprisoned and then freed :

The fitful glimmering through the hedgerow green

Gave a strange beauty to the changing scene ;

And roaring winds and rushing waters lent

Their mingled voice that to the spirit went.

To these she listened ; but new sounds were heard,
And sight more startling to her soul appeared ;
These were low lengthened tones with sobs between,
And near at hand, but nothing yet was seen ;
She hurried on, and " Who is there ? " she cried, —
" A dying wretch ! " was from the earth replied.

It was her lover — was the man she gave,
The price she paid, himself from death to save ;
With whom, expiring, she must kneel and pray,
While the soul flitted from the shivering clay
That pressed the dewy ground and bled its life away
This was the part that duty bade her take,
Instant and ere her feelings were awake ;
But now they waked to anguish : there came then,
Hurrying with lights, loud speaking, eager men.

" And here, my lord, we met — And who is here ?
The keeper's wife ! — Ah ! woman go not near !
There lies the man that was the head of all —
See in his temples went the fatal ball !
And James that instant, who was then our guide,
Felt in his heart the adverse shot, and died !
It was a sudden meeting, and the light

153

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Of a dull moon made indistinct our fight ;

He foremost fell ! — but see, the woman creeps

Like a lost thing, that wanders as she sleeps.

See, here her husband's body — but she knows

That other dead, and that her action shows.

Rachel ! why look you at your mortal foe ? —

She does not hear us — Whither will she go ? "

Now, more attentive, on the dead they gazed.

And they were brothers : sorrowing and amazed

On all a momentary silence came,

A common softness, and a moral shame.

" Seized you the poachers " ? said my lord. — " They fled,

And we pursued not — one of them was dead,

And one of us : they turned through the wood,

Two lives were gone, and we no more pursued.

Two lives of men, of valiant brothers, lost !

Enough, my lord, do hares aud pheasants cost ! "

As men with children at their sport behold,

And smile to see them, though unmoved and cold,

Smile at the recollected games, and then

Depart and mix in the affairs of men :

So Rachel looks upon the world, and sees.

It cannot longer pain her, cannot please,

But just detain the passing thought, or cause

A gentle smile of pity or applause ;

And then the recollected soul repairs

Her slumbering hope, and heeds her own affairs.

(From Tales of the Hall. Bk. xxi.)

Robert Bloomfield

1766-1823.

PLOUGHING IN THE OLDER DAYS

No wheels support the diving pointed share ;
No groaning ox is doomed to labour there ;

154

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD

No helpmates teach the docile steed his road

(Alike unknown the ploughboy and the goad) ;

But, unassisted through each toilsome day,

With smiling brow the ploughman cleaves his way,

Draws his fresh parallels, and widened still,

Treads slow the heavy dale, or climbs the hill :

Strong on the wing his busy followers play,

Where writhing earth-worms meet the unwelcome day

Till all is changed, and hill and level down

Assume a livery of a sober brown ;

Again disturbed when Giles with wearying strides

From ridge to ridge the ponderous harrow guides ;

His heels deep sinking every step he goes,

Till dirt adhesive loads his clouted shoes.

Welcome green headland ! firm beneath his feet ;

Welcome the friendly bank's refreshing seat ;

There, warm with toil, his panting horses browse

Their sheltering canopy of pendent boughs ;

Till Rest delicious chaise each transient pain

And new born vigour swell in every vein.

Hour after hour, and day to day succeeds ;

Till every clod and deep drawn furrow spreads

To crumbling mould ; a level surface clear,

And strewed with corn to crown the rising year ;

And o'er the whole Giles traverse once again,

In earth's moist bosom buries up the grain.

(From the Farmer's Boy.)

THE OLD COUPLE

Come, Goody, stop your humdrum wheel,
Sweep up your orts, and get your hat ;
Old joys revived once more I feel.
Tis fair-day ; — aye, and more than that.

Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,
How many seasons here we've tarried ?
155

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

'Tis fifty years, this very day,

Since you and I, old girl, were married.

His mattock he behind the door
And hedging gloves again replaced ;
And looked across the yellow moor,
And urged his tottering spouse to haste.

The day was up, the air serene,
The firmament without a cloud ;
The bee hummed o'er the level green,
Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.

And Richard thus with heart elate,

As past things rushed across his mind,

O'er his shoulder talked to Kate,

Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind.

And soon the aged couple spied
Their lusty sons and daughters dear : —
When Richard thus exulting cried,
" Didn't I tell you they'd be here ? "

The cordial greetings of the soul
Were visible in every face ;
Affection, void of all control,
Governed with a resistless grace.

'Twas good to see the honest strife
Which should contribute most to please ;
And hear the long recounted life
Of infant tricks and happy days.

156

ROBERT BURNS

Robert Burns

1759-1796.

TO A MOUSE,

On turning her up in her nest, with the plough, November,

1785.

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou needna start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickerin' brattle !

I wad be laith to rin and chase thee,

Wi' murdring pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that all opinion

Which maks thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion

An' fellow-mortal !

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ;
What then ? Poor beastie, thou maun live !
A daimen-fcker in a thrave

'S a sma' request.
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave,

And never miss't !

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin' !
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green !
An' bleak December's winds ensuin'

Baith snell and keen !

Brattle] hurry. Pattle] plough-staff. Daimen-icker] an ear of corn
occasionally. Thrave] 24 sheaves. Big] build. Snell] bitter. Foggage]
grass.

157

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin' fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,
Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' crawreuch cold.

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o' mice and men,

Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain

For promis'd joy.

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me !
The present only toucheth thee :
But, och ! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear !
An' forward, tho' I canna see

I guess and fear.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

Thou ling' ring star, with less'ning ray,
Thou lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.

But] without. Hald] holding. Thole] suffer. Crawreuch] Hoarfrost.
No thy lane] not alone. Gang aft agley] go often wrong.

158

ROBERT BURNS

O Mary ! dear departed shade !

Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met.

To live one day of parting love !
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past ;
Thy image at our last embrace ;

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last !

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green,
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar,

Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd scene.
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,

The birds sang love on every spray —
Till too, too soon, the glowing west

Proclaimed the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,

And fondly broods with miser care !
Time but th' impression stronger majces,

As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary ! dear departed shade !

Where is thy place of blissful rest ?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?

JEAN.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

Airts] ways, directions.
159

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :
There wild woods grow, and rivers row

And mony a hill between :
But day and night my fancy's flight

Is. ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair :
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air :
There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw or green ;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

THE BANKS O' BOON.

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary fu' o' care.
Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird,

That wantons thro' the flowering thorn :
Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Beparted never to return.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Boon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine ;
And ilka bird sang o' its Luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine ;
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree !
And my fause luver staw my rose,

But, ah 1 he left the thorn wi' me.

Row] roll. Shaw] wood.
Braes] slopes. Staw] stole.

160

ROBERT BURNS

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent ;
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent ;
But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw ;
But blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither ;
And mony a cantil day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither :
Now we maun totter down, John,

And hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo.

AULD LANG SYNE.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to min' ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

And days o' auld lang syne ?

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine ;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne !

Acquent] acquainted. Brent] smooth. Beld] bald. Pow] pate.
Cantil] jolly.

Pint-stowp] two-quart measure.

VOL. VI. l6l M

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

We twa hae rin about the braes,

And pu'd the gowans fine ;
But we've wander' d monie a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i* the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine ;
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear.

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hings his head, and a' that ?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that !
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that ;
The rank is but the guinea stamp
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that ;

Gowans] daisies. Fit] foot. Braid] broad. Fiere] companion, chum.
Waught] draught.

Hings] hangs. Gowd] gold. Hoddin grey] coarse gray woollen stuff.

162

ROBERT BURNS

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that :
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd ' a lord,'

Wha struts, and stares, an a' that ?
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

His ribband, star and a' that,
The man o' independent mind
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that ;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Gude faith, he mauna fa' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Their dignities and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that ;
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that ;

That man to man, the world o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that

Birkie] fellow. Cuif] dolt. Mauna fa'] must not claim, Gree pre-
eminence.

163

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

THE FAREWELL

It was a' for our rightfu king,
We left fair Scotland's strand ;

It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,

And a' is done in vain ;
My love and native land, farewell,

For I maun cross the main, my dear,

For I maun cross the main.

He turned him right, and round about,

Upon the Irish shore ;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,

With adieu for evermore, my dear,

With adieu for evermore.

The sodger frae the wars returns

The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,

Never to meet again, my dear,

Never to meet again.

When day is gane and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep ;
I think on him that's far awa'
The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.

164

ROBERT BURNS

BURNING THE NUTS AT HALLOWEEN l

Upon that night, when Fairies light

On Cassilis Downans 2 dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
, On sprightly coursers prance ;

Or for Colean the rout is ta'en,

Beneath the moon's pale beams ;
There, up the Cove,3 to stray an' rove
Amang the rocks and streams

To sport that night ;

Amang the bonnie, winding banks,

Where Doon rins, wimplin, clear,
Where Bruce* ance rul'd the martial ranks,

An' shook his Carrick spear,
Some merry, friendly, country folks,

Together did convene,
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks,

An' haud their Halloween

Fu' blythe that night.

The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat,

Mair braw than when they're fine ;
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe,

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin :

Lays] pastures. Wimplin] winding. Pou] pull. Stocks] plants.
Haud] hold. Feat] trim. Braw] fair. Kythe] show.

1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-
making beings are all abroad on their baneful, midnight errands ; parti-
cularly those aerial people, the fairies, are said, on that night, to hold a
grand anniversary. — R. B.

2 Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in the neighbourhood of
the ancient seat of the Earls of Cassilis. — R. B.

3 A noted cavern near Colean House, called the Cove of Colean ; which,
as well as Cassilis Downans, is famed in country story for being a favourite
haunt of fairies. — R. B.

* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great
deliverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. — R. B.

I65

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs,

Weel knotted on their garten,
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs,

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin
Whyles fast at night.

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits1

Are round an' round divided,
An' monie lads' and lasses' fates

Are there that night decided :
Some kindle, couthie, side by side,

An' burn thegither trimly ;
Some start awa, wi' saucy pride,

An' jump out-owre the chimlie
Fu' high that night.

Jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e ;

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ;
But this is Jock, and this is me,

She says in to hersel :
He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him,

As they wad never mair part ;
Till fuff ! he started up the lum.

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart
To see't that night.

Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt,

Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie,
An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt,

Te be compar'd to Willie :

Wooer-babs] love-knots. Blate] shy. Gabs] talk. Gar] make. Couthie]
cosily. Tentie] -watchful. Lum] chimney. Primsie] prim. Drunt] bufi.

1 Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and the
lass to each particular nut, as they lay them in the fire ; and accordingly
as they burn quietly together, or start from beside one another, the course
and issue of the courtship will be. — R. B.

166

ROBERT BURNS

Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling,
An' her ain fit it brunt it ;

While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing,
'Twas just the way he wanted
To be that night.

Nell had the fause-house in her rain',

She pits hersel an' Rob in ;
In loving bleeze they sweetly join,

Till white in ase they're sobbin :
Nell's heart was dancin at the view ;

She whisper 'd Rob to leuk for't :
Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou.

Fu' cozie in the neuk for't,

Unseen that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks,

I wat they did na weary ;
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap and cheery ;
Till butter'd So'ns,1 wi' fragrant lunt,

Set a' their gabs a-steering ;
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,

They parted aff careerin

Fu' blythe that night.

(From Halloween.)

Fit] foot. ( Ase] ashes. Stowlins] stealthily. Pried] kissed. Mou] mouth.
Neuk] corner. Lunt] steam. Gabs] tongues. A-steerin] wagging. Strunt]
liquor.

i Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween
Supper.— R. B.

167

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

FROM THE HOLY FAIR

A robe of seeming truth and trust

Hid crafty Observation ;
And secret hung, with poison'd crust.

The dirk of Defamation :
A mask that like the gorget show'd,

Dye-varying on the pigeon ;
And for a mantle large and broad,

He wrapt him in Religion.

HYPOCRISY A.-LA-MODE.

Upon a simmer Sunday morn,

When Nature's face is fair,
I walked forth to view the corn,

An' snuff the caller air.
The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs,

Wi' glorious light was glintin ;
The hares were hirplin down the furrs.

The lav'rocks they were chantin
Fu' sweet that day.

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad,

To see a scene sae gay,
Three hizzies, early at the road,

Cam skelpin up the way.
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black,

But ane wi' lyart lining ;
The third, that gaed a wee a-back,

Was in the fashion shining

Fu' gay that day.

The twa appear'd like sisters twin,
In feature, form, an' claes ;

Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin,
An' sour as ony slaes :

Caller] cool.* Hirplin] hopping. Furs] furrows. Glowr'd] gazed.
Hizzies] young women. Lyart] grey.

168

ROBERT BURNS

The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp,

As light as ony lambie,
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop,
As soon as e'er she saw me,
Fu' kind that day.

Wi' bonnet afT, quoth I, " Sweet lass,

I think ye seem to ken me ;
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face,

But yet I canna name ye."
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak,

An' taks me by the han's,
" Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck

Of a' the ten comman's

A screed some day.

" My name is Fun — your cronie dear,

The nearest friend ye hae ;
An' this is Superstition here,

An' that's Hypocrisy.
I'm gaun to Mauchline Holy Fair,

To spend an hour in damn :
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair,

We will get famous laughin

At them this day."

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't ;

I'll get my Sunday's sark on,
An' meet you on the holy spot ;

Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin ! "
Then I gaed hame at crowdie-time,

An' soon I made me ready ;
For roads were clad, frae side to side,

Wi' monie a wearie bodie,

In droves that day.

Hap, lowp] hop, jump. Curchie] curtsey. Feck] bulk. Baffin] lark-
ing. Sark] shirt. Crowdie] porridge.

169

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith

Gaed hoddin by their cotters,
There, swanldes young, in braw braid-claith

Are springin owre the gutters.
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang,

In silks an' scarlets glitter ;
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang,

An' farls, bak'd wi' butter,

Fu' crump that day.

When by the plate we set our nose,

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence,
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws,

An' we maun draw our tippence.
Then in we go to see the show,

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin,
Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools,

An' some are busy bleth'rin

Right loud that day.

Now a' the congregation o'er

Is silent expectation ;
For Moodie speels the holy door,

Wi' tidings o' damnation.
Should Hornie, as in ancient days,

'Mang sons o' God present him,
The vera sight o' Moodie's face,

To's ain het hame had sent him
Wi' fright that day.

Hear how he clears the points o' faith

Wi' rattlin an' wi' thumpin !
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath,

He's stampin an' he's jumpin !

Gash] bold. Graith] gear. Hoddin] jogging. Swankies] youngsters.
Skelpin] tripping. Thrang] thronged. Whang] piece. Farls] cakes.
Crump] crisp. Glowr] glance. Black bonnet] an elder. Dails] planks.
Speels] climbs. Hornie] the devil.

170

ROBERT BURNS

His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout,
His eldritch squeel an' gestures,

O how they fire the hearts devout,
Like cantharidian plasters,
On sic a day !

But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice ;

There's peace an' rest nae langer :
For a' the real judges rise,

They canna sit for anger.
Smith opens out his cauld harangues,

On practice and on morals ;
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs,

To gie the jars an' barrels
A lift that day.

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent

To mind baith saul an' body,
Sit round the table, weel content,

An' steer about the toddy.
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk,

They're makin observations ;
While some are cozie i' the neuk,

An' formin assignations

To meet some day.

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts,

Till a' the hills are rairin,
An' echoes back return the shouts ;

Black Russel is na spairin :
His piercing words, like Highlan' swords,

Divide the joints an' marrow ;
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell,

Our vera " sauls does harrow "
Wi' fright that day !

Eldritch] unearthly.
171

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit,

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane,
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat,

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane !
The half asleep start up wi' fear,

An' think they hear it roarin,
When presently it does appear,

'Twas but some neebor snorin
Asleep that day.

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell

How monie stories past,
An' how they crowded to the yill,

When they were a' dismist :
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups,

Amang the furms and benches ;
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps,

Was dealt about in lunches,

An' dawds that day.

THE TWA DOGS

A TALE

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle,
That bears the name o' Auld King Coil,
Upon a bonnie day in June,
When wearing thro' the afternoon,
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at name,
Forgather'd ance upon a time.

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar,
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure :
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs,
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs ;
But whalpit some place far abroad,
Whare sailors gang to fish for cod.

Lowin] flaming. Lunches] generous portions. Dawds] lumps.
Lugs] ears. Whalpit] born at.

172

ROBERT BURNS

His locked, letter' d, braw brass collar,
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar ;
But tho' he was o' high degree,
The fient a pride — nae pride had he ;
But wad hae spent an hour caressin,
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messin.

At kirk or market, mill or smiddie,
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie,
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,
An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him.

The tither was a ploughman's collie,
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie,
Wha for his friend and comrade had him
An' in his freaks had Luath ca'd him,
After some dog in Highland sang,
Was made lang syne, — Lord knows how lang.

He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dike.
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Ay gat him friends in ilka place ;
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ;
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung owre his hurdies wi' a swirl.

Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither,
An' unco pack an' thick thegither ;
Wi' social nose whyles snuff 'd and snowkit ;
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit ;
Whyles scour'd awa in lang excursion,
An' worry'd ither in diversion ;

Messin] mongrel. Smiddie] smithy. Tawted] matted. Buddie]
ragged. Gash] wise. Sheugh] fence. Sonsie] pleasant. Baws'nt] white
streaked. Gawcie] joyful. Hurdies] hind-quarters. Moudieworts] moles,
Howkit] dug.

173

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

Until wi' daffin weary grown,
Upon a knowe they sat them down,
An' there began a lang digression
About the lords o' the creation.

C.ESAR.

I've aften wonder' d, honest Luath,
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have ;
An' when the gentry's life I saw,
What way poor bodies liv'd ava.

Our Laird gets in his racked rents,
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents :
He rises when he likes himsel ;
His flunkies answer at the bell ;
He ca's his coach ; he ca's his horse ;
He draws a bonnie, silken purse
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steeks,
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks.

Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling,
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling ;
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin,
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan,
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie,
That's little short o' downright wastrie.
Our whipper-in, wee blastit wonner,
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner,
Better than ony tenant man
His Honour has in a' the Ian :
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in,
I own it's past my comprehension.

AvaJ at all. Kain] rents in kind. Stents] dues. Steeks] stitches.
Geordie] guinea. Stechin] cramming. Pechan] stomach. Ha' folk]
servants. Painch] paunch.

ROBERT BURNS

LUATH.

Trowth, Caesar, whyles they're fash't eneugh
A cotter howkin in a sheugh,
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke,
Baring a quarry, and siclike,
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains,
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans,
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape.

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters,
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters,
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer,
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger ;
But, how it comes, I never kend yet,
They're maistly wonderfu' contented ;
An' buirdly chiels, an' clever hizzies,
Are bred in sic a way as this is.

But then to see how ye' re negleckit,
How huffd, an' cuff'd, an' disrespeckit !
Lord, man, our gentry care as little
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle,
They gang as saucy by poor folk,
As I wad by a stinking brock.

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day,
An' mony a time my heart's been wae,
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash,
How they maun thole a factor's snash :
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear,
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear ;
While they maun stan', wi' aspect humble,
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble !

Baring] clearing. Smytrie] litter. Darg] labour. Thack] thatch. Rape]
rope. Buirdly chiels] stout lads. Brock] badger. Snash] abuse. Poind]
seize.

175

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

I see how folk live that hae riches ;
But surely poor folk maun be wretches.

LUATH.

They're no sae wretch' ds ane wad think :
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink :
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight,
The view o't gies them little fright.

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided,
They're ay in less or mair provided ;
An' tho' fatigu'd wi' close employment,
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment.

The dearest comfort o' their lives,
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives :
The prattling things are just their pride,
That sweetens a' their fire-side.

An' whyles twalpennie worth o' nappy
Can mak the bodies unco happy ;
They lay aside their private cares,
To mind the Kirk and State affairs ;
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests,
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts,
Or tell what new taxation's comin,
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on.

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returns,
They get the jovial, ranting kirns,
When rural life, o' ev'ry station,
Unite in common recreation ;
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth.

Poortith's] poverty's. Grushie] 'gowing. Ferlie] marvel. Ranting
kirns] harvest homes.

176

That merry day the year begins,
They bar the door on frosty winds ;
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream,
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam ;
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill,
Are handed round wi' right guid will ;
The cantie auld folks crackin crouse,
The young anes ranting thro' the house,—
My heart has been sae fain to see them,
That I for joy hae barkit wi' them.

Still its owre true that ye hae said,
Sic game is now owre aften play'd.
There's monie a creditable stock
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk,
Are riven out baith root an' branch,
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench,
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster
In favour wi' some gentle Master,
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin,
For Britain's guid his saul indentin —

C^SAR.

Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ;
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it.
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him,
An' saying aye or no's they bid him :
At operas an' plays parading,
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading
Or maybe, in a frolic daff,
To Hague or Calais taks a waft,
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl,
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'.

Ream] cream. Luntin] smoking. Sneeshin mill] snuff box. Crouse]
cheerfully. Fawsont] well-doing. Aiblins] may be. Indentin] inden-
turing. Gaun] going.

VOL. VI. 177 N

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

There, at Vienna or Versailles,
He rives his father's auld entails ;
Or by Madrid he taks the rout,
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt ;
Or down Italian vista startles,
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles :
Then bouses drumly German water,
To make himsel look fair and fatter,
An' clear the consequential sorrows,
Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras,

For Britain's guid ! for her destruction !
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction !

LUATH.

Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate
They waste sae mony a braw estate ?
Are we sae foughten an' harass'd
For gear to gang that gate at last ?

O would they stay aback frae courts,
An' please themsels wi' countra sports,
It wad for ev'ry ane be better,
The laird, the tenant, an' the cotter !
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies,
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows •
Except for breaking o' their timmer,
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer,
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cock,
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk.

But will ye tell me, Master Caesar,
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure ?
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them,
The vera thought o't need na fear them.

Fecht] fight. Drumlie] muddy. Timmer] timber. Limmer] mistress.

I78

ROBERT BURNS

C.ESAR.

Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em,

It's true, they need na starve or sweat,
Thro' winter's cauld, or simmer's heat ;
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes,
An' fill auld age wi' grips an' granes :
But human bodies are sic fools,
For a' their colleges and schools,
That when nae real ills perplex them,
They mak enow themsels to vex them ;
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them,
In like proportion, less will hurt them.

A country fellow at the pleugh,
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh ;
A country girl at her wheel,
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel :
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst,
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst.
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy ;
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy :
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless ;
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless ;

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races,
Their galloping thro' public places,
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art,
The joy can scarcely reach the heart.

The men cast out in party-matches,
Then sowther a' in deep debauches.
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring,
Niest day their life is past enduring.

Dizzen] dozen. - Ev'n down] right down. Deil-haet] nothing.

I79

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters.
As great an' gracious a' as sisters ;
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither.
Whyles, owre the wee bit cup an' platie,
They sip the scandal potion pretty ;
Or lee-lang nights, wi' crabbit leuks,
Pore ower the devil's pictur'd beuks ;
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard,
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard.

There's some exceptions, man an' woman ;
But this is Gentry's life in common.

By this, the sun was out o' sight,
An' darker gloamin brought the night :
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone,
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan ;
When up they gat, an' shook their lugs,
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ;
An' estch took aff his several way,
Resolv'd to meet some ither day.

ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY
RIGHTEOUS

My son, these maxims make a rule,

And lump them aye thegither ;
The RIGID RIGHTEOUS is a fool.

The RIGID WISE anither :
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight

May hae some pyles o' caff in ;
So ne'er a fellow-creature slight

For random fits o' damn.

SOLOMON. — Eccles. vii. 16.

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel,
Sae pious and sae holy,

Bum-clock! beetle. Rowtin] lowing. Loan] field-path.

180

ROBERT BURNS

Ye've nought to do but mark and tell
Your Neebour's fauts and folly !

Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supply 'd wi' store o' water,

The heapet happer's ebbing still,
And still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,

As counsel for poor mortals,
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door,

For glaikit Folly's portals ;
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,

Would here propone defences,
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,

Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd,

And shudder at the niffer,
But cast a moment's fair regard,

What maks the mighty differ ;
Discount what scant occasion gave

That purity ye pride in,
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave)

Your better art o' hiding.

Think, when your castigated pulse

Gies now and then a wallop,
What raging must his veins convulse,

That still eternal gallop :
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail,

Right on ye scud your sea-way ;
But in the teeth o' baith to sail,

It maks an unco leeway.

Dight] sifted. Caff] chaff. Baffin] larking. Happer] hopper. Clap!
clapper. Core] company. Glaikit] giddy. Propone] put forth. Donsie]
restive. Niffer] exchange. Unco] uncommon.

181

A TREASURY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE

See Social life and Glee sit down,

All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown

Debauchery and Drinking :
O would they stap to calculate

Th' eternal consequences ;
Or — your more dreaded hell to state —

Damnation of expenses !

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames,

Ty'd up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,

Suppose a change o' cases ;
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug,

A treacherous inclination —
But, let me whisper i' your lug,

Ye've aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother Man,

Still gentler sister Woman ;
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang,

To step aside is human :
One point must still be greatly dark,

The moving Why they do it ;
And just as lamely can ye mark,

How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone

Decidedly can try us,
He knows each chord — its various tone,

Each spring — its various bias :
Then at the balance let's be mute,

We never can adjust it ;
What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

Lug] ear. Aiblins] may be. A kennin] very little.
182

BUTLER & TANNER.

THE SELWOOD PRINTING WORKS.

FROME, AND LONDON.

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